Never Leave Home Again
by Verdreht
Summary: Takes place after the first movie (ignores the others). After covering for Toretto and his crew, Brian barely managed to keep his job. Now he's in over his head on an undercover detail. One night, it finally all comes back to bite him in the ass, and when he wakes up, he's somewhere he never thought he'd be again. And now he's not sure he ever wants to leave. Brian/Dom slash
1. Chapter 1

Brian knows he's in trouble the moment he hears the motorcycles in the distance.

Fuck it, he thinks. He's been in trouble since the moment they handed him that manila folder with Dom's picture inside. It's been one NOS-fueled trip downhill since then, and the real bitch of it is, he'd do it all again in a heartbeat.

The times he spent running with Toretto and his crew were some of the best of his life. And okay, yeah, maybe that's not saying much, but it means something to him. It means a whole lot of something.

That's probably why it hurts so much.

And it does. It really fucking hurts, in that way that makes him feel hollow and busted up, like he's been stripped down to his frame and scrapped for parts. He didn't lose everything – he's still got his badge, and he knows that's a damn miracle. But what he did lose…it meant a lot. He'd lost friends. He lost the closest thing he'd ever had to a family.

He lost Mia.

The thought has him downing the last of the beer he shouldn't be drinking – Tanner would be pissing fire if he found out, but Brian figures it's his fault he's there in the first place – even as the roar of motorcycle engines grows louder and closer.

He's lost her; that part's a done deal. But lately, he's started wondering if he ever really had her to begin with. They were convenient, he thinks, and he hates himself for it, but it's the truth. She was his way in; he was her way out. She gave him a way to get inside the Toretto orbit, and he was the only thing around her that seemed to rotate outside it.

That's not to say he didn't love her. Doesn't love her. Because he does. He really, really does. It's just not the right kind of love. When he can't sleep at night, and she worms her way into his thoughts, it's not loss he feels; it's guilt, and that doesn't fit.

The bikes are almost on him. He's pulled over on one of the cliff roads, looking out at the lights of the LA city night spread out below him. It's something he does a lot, now, when he's not working himself like a dog for the LAPD – "Detective" ain't just a name on a badge, it turns out, and they're making him work for every damn letter – or keeping up his cover (and his rent) over at Harry's. He likes to take drives, likes to get away from it all. The beach is a favorite, too. Hell, he figures he'd be there now.

Except he isn't here to relax tonight. He's here for business.

He can see headlights coming down the road, and there's a part of him that knows he should be getting his ass in his Skyline and booking it before it's too late. But the two beers he's had since he stopped make that part a little quieter, and he's got a job to do. He's not going anywhere.

It's not that he's suicidal. Seriously. He's never bought into that 'life's too hard; it's not worth living' bullshit, and he's sure as hell not gonna start now.

But he isn't scared, either. Not of these clowns. They're just some thugs trying to rise to the top of the Little Saigon totem pole, and it's his job to keep an eye on them.

Scared or not, though, his pulse quickens a bit as the bikes appear around the bend. They circle him, like fucking vultures or something, their engines still roaring so loud Brian can hardly hear himself think.

There's six of them.

He's still not scared.

The motors cut off, and Brian's grateful for that. He likes the roar of a four cylinder internal combustion engine as much as the next guy – hell, probably a little more – but six is fucking overkill, and he already has a headache.

All the crazy shit he's done, and he's pretty sure it's gonna be paperwork that kills him.

It's not all peace and quiet, though. He's got ten kinds of warning bells going off in his head as the guys start getting of their bikes, taking off their helmets. They're all wearing scowls, except for the one that's dead in front of him.

"I'm guessing you're Kevin."

The guy smirks, his almond eyes cinching up in a way that just screams 'dick'. And while his momma always told him not to judge a book by its cover, he's thinking this one's pretty dead on.

"You've heard of me," he says.

"Yeah, I've heard of you."

Of course he has, Brian thinks. The guy's name has been spreading around like a bad case of herpes. Kevin Yeung, cousin to Johnny Tran and new big man in Little Saigon. Rumor has it he's been pulling gigs all over. Heists, shootings, beatings…probably trying to make a name for himself.

Given his background with the Saigons and LA's underbelly, it's fallen – meaning it's been dumped like a steaming heap of shit – on Brian to tie him to some of it.

Kevin's smirk is even more venomous. "I've heard of you, too."

"Nothing too bad, I hope." He's playing with fire; he knows it. But he doesn't want to stop.

Kevin is not amused. "You're Toretto's little bitch," he spits. "I hear he turned you out on your lily white ass."

Brian knows he should be offended, and a little part of him probably is. But it's the same part of him that wanted to bolt when he heard the bikes, the same part that the beer's put on mute. And there's a much bigger part of Brian that's laughing his _lily white ass_ off at this punk ass little Wasabi wannabe that thinks he can roll up with his crew acting tough and _actually_ scare him.

It's just kinda funny.

He manages to keep it down to a small smile as he reaches down for another beer to crack open. "You been working on that a while, Kev? Say everything you wanted to say?" He takes a pull of his beer. "Because I didn't call you here to talk shit. I called you here to talk business."

"You think you're pretty cool, don't you, bitch?"

"It's actually _Brian_." He takes another swig, leaning back against the trunk of his car.

"It's actually whatever the fuck I say it is, because last time I checked, we've got you six to one." He starts walking forward, and the cop in Brian sees the gun on his hip, and by the time Kevin's within a few feet, Brian's already got ten scenarios in his head to how this is gonna play out. "I'm gonna make you pay for killing my cousin."

Because since when did things ever happen for Brian the easy way?

Kevin doesn't go for the gun; that, he thinks, would be too impersonal, too quick, and he wants to make this last. After all, what better way to make his name as Kingpin than by getting back at the guy that nixed the last one?

So, no, no guns. Not yet, anyway, which is good. He's not really keen on putting bullets in people, and he really doesn't want to explain in a report why he'd been drinking when he put couple holes in the new leader of the Little Saigon crew.

Kevin goes the much more standby route of a sharp right hook, which is easy enough to dodge, although some of his beer sloshes out over his hand. He's glad he's holding it in his left – it's not, by the way, coincidence – because his right hand's always been his dominant, so the punch he throws in retaliation would probably have hurt him more than it hurts Kevin.

That, luckily, is not the case. He feels knuckle collide with soft belly, and Kevin doubles over his fist. He doesn't stay that way for long, though; Brian gives him a shove to the shoulder while he's reaching for his toes that has him stumbling back.

Brian grins. This might not be so bad, after all. He needs to blow off some steam, and so far, Kevin's not posing much of a threat.

The guy manages to stop himself just short of kissing asphalt, which is kind of disappointing, but Brian figures he can work with it. It would be a drag if he went down that fast, anyway.

"Little bitch," Kevin seethes.

"Kinda old for name-calling, aren't we?" he takes another drink of his beer and flexes his hand. Gut shots don't really hurt that much, but he's pretty sure there's gonna be more fists flying before the night's out. It's with that in mind that he sits his beer down on the pavement beside him.

In hindsight, it was kind of stupid to think Yeung would agree to meet him just to talk.

"You sure bend over like one."

Brian stops. He's still squatting down, hand on the bottle that's now sitting on the pavement, and he tells himself he's thinking about what he's about to do. Six guys on one: shitty odds. And he knows Kevin ain't a pushover, even if he got in an easy shot on him. He's out on a road that no one's gonna come by, close to midnight, with only the headlights of his car and the six bikes to see by, and he's a few beers in. The beer-softened voice in his head – it's starting to sound an awful lot like Tanner – is ripping him a new one for putting himself in such a bad situation for the case, but the rest of him…

Eh, he figures he's had worse.

So, one second he's crouched, and the next he's sprinting, shoulders low, and tackling Kevin like a full-on fucking linebacker. He's pretty sure someone's shouting, and maybe it's him, but he doesn't really care.

Things pretty much go to hell from there.

He's got Kevin on the ground one second, and he was right; Kevin's no pushover. He's throwing elbows and fists and knees and everything he can into Brian's kidneys and ribs, but Brian doesn't let up. It feels good to just wail on someone, to just let go, and so what if it hurts a hell of a lot more to punch someone on the bony parts of their face than it does their stomach?

But then the attack gets new dimensions. There are hands on him, grabbing him, trying to drag him back. He spares an elbow for a second to catch one of them in the groin, and judging by the pained sort of yowl the guy lets out, he's not gonna have to worry about him for a little while.

Kevin's trying to worm out from under him, though, so Brian shifts his focus back to him. Grabbing him by the front of the shirt, he hauls him up, off his elbows and off whatever traction he'd managed to gain, before slamming him back down with a fist to the nose.

He's pretty sure he's not going to be getting up for a while, either. He knows it's broken; he's happy with that. None of it's enough to kill the guy, but he'll be ugly for a little while, and maybe that'll teach him.

He's planning on leaving it at that. He's not in the business of putting people in the hospital to prove a point – he's seen where that road leads, and he's got enough shit to deal with as it is – so he really doesn't mind just letting him tuck tale and run.

Only, just as he's starting to stand—

Something hard connects with the back of his head, and the world goes white for a second. When it clears, he's on his hands and knees, and he's staring down at asphalt that's shining in the headlights. It's kind of weird, because he can almost see his reflection, and last time he checked, asphalt doesn't shine like that.

There's something wet on the back of his head, he realizes. Probably the same something wet that's on the ground, and he thinks he sees glass shards, but his visions kind of blurry.

He doesn't get long to think about it, anyway. Just when the world looks like it's gonna stop spinning out, he's literally lifted off his hands and knees by something hard and solid and fast colliding with his ribs. It's hard enough he lands on his back, and yeah, that was definitely glass, because he can feel it digging into his back, now.

Which doesn't seem that important, compared to the boot that's driving down into his ribs. He hopes he's just imagining the crunch, but the pain and pressure are all too real. There are bodies looming over him, he realizes. He needs to get up. Needs to get some leverage, some control back.

The next boot that lands just left of his sternum, he grabs between his arms. He rolls, still holding his foot – and that's a snap he knows he's not imagining – and the guy goes sprawling with a cry that, in Brian's opinion, shouldn't come from anything with a dick. It must be his lucky day, too, because he takes one of his buddies with him.

Scrambling to get his feet under him, Brian launches himself forward and up. He needs distance. The glass bites into his hands, into his knees, and it's worryingly hard to catch his breath, but he's up, and that's what matters.

He's barely had his feet under him two seconds when there's a knife swinging his direction. The guy's holding it wrong, though – blade inside rather than out, and it's easy enough to grab his wrist, twist, and catch the knife blade-out. Out of the goodness of his heart, he drops the guy with an elbow to the back instead of his newly-claimed weapon, and his rush at Brian has him just off balance enough that he skids forward.

Brian is on him in an instant. Because as good as it is to have a knife, there's something he wants considerably more. He drops his knee on the guy's back and reaches for his hip, and when he stands, he's got a gun. He could've gone for his own just as easy, he figures, but he's hoping he can maybe salvage some of his cover.

So, no, he uses the other guy's gun. He keeps his foot on his back, and the gun, he's leveled at Kevin who's managed to haul himself up with the help of one of his boys.

"Get out of here," Brian says, and he really doesn't like the way his voice is echoing in his own head. "Unless you guys want this to get ugly. Because I know for a fact I can drop at least three of you before you even get your guns out, and the odds aren't great for the rest getting off a shot." He's talking in his cop voice, he realizes. It would worry him, except he's pretty sure none of them are listening to him all that close.

The four still standing are looking at Kevin, their fearless and fucked up leader, and with a sort of unspoken agreement, they all make for their bikes.

"Get off me, bitch," snarls the guy Brian's half standing on.

Brian gives him a kick. "You're pretty fresh for a doormat." All the same, he lets the guy to his feet and watches him sprint to his bike to take off after his buddies.

He waits until the last taillight disappears around the mountain before he risks turning his back, and then, it's only to grab his beer.

It isn't there, he realizes with a frown. On the plus side, though, he figures at least he knows what they hit him with.

"Fucking wasteful." Gingerly, he squats down to recover his two-pack of beers. He's still got another six in the car, so it's not a total loss, but he thinks better of cracking open another one as he all but drops into the driver's seat. "Christ," he breathes, and he lets his forehead fall against the steering wheel. The adrenaline's still coursing, and he knows he needs to get going before it wears off, because then he's fucked.

So, he does. He puts the keys in the ignition, and he goes. His whole body screams bloody murder with every bump he hits in the road, and his vision's still not quite right, but he'll manage. Long enough to get where he's going, anyway.

He doesn't actually know where that is. At least, he doesn't have any place in particular in mind.

Which is why he's kind of surprised and, at the same time, kind of isn't when he pulls off to the side of the road in the one neighborhood he thought he'd never swing by again.

He's parked right outside the Toretto house. He has no idea why, but he is, and as soon as he kills the gas, he knows there's no way he's getting going again. There's sure as hell no way he can get his ass all the way to Harry's. He's too used up. His _skin_ hurts; his _bones_ hurt. Breathing, no surprise, hurts, and he's pretty sure the only thing keeping his eyes open is the steady throbbing of his heartbeat behind them.

For a single, stupid second, he actually thinks about dragging himself out of the car. Walking up to the door. Knocking. It's one in the morning, and he can imagine Mia in there, maybe Leon and Jesse, maybe even Vince, all sleeping soundly.

And Dom. Jesus, Dom. He's not sure whether the way his stomach turns is fear or…something else he can't quite place. They didn't have anything on him; Brian had made sure of that, wiping down both the Civics inside and out and covering all Dom's tracks until there weren't any left. It had kind of been his final 'fuck you' to the Bureau before they'd backed off.

So yeah, he'd covered for Dom. But he'd also betrayed him, and he wasn't sure how all that balanced out on the Toretto scale.

He's not willing to risk it. Besides, he made it a month and a half without them – made it his _whole damn life_ without Dom and his crew; he can make it on his own just fine. He just…he needs to close his eyes for a little bit. Maybe a couple hours, and he'll leave. They won't even be awake yet, won't even notice his car sitting out on the road.

That's what he tells himself, anyway. It's enough for his busted up body and his dog-tired mind, and so he carefully shrugs on his jacket, reclines the seat, turns on his side – his back stings like a bitch, and his right ribs don't hurt as much as his left ones, so it works – and closes his eyes.

Just a few hours.

He'll be gone before morning.

_Just a few hours…._


	2. Chapter 2

He's startled awake by the sound of the car door opening, and a tug on the back of his jacket is the only warning he gets before he's being tugged out of his car.

On reflex, he lashes out. He throws out a fist, and he feels it connect. Hands grab at him, try to wrestle him down, but he breaks out of them, tries to get to his feet. He manages to get traction on the concrete of the sidewalk, but it doesn't count for much, because the next second, he's being thrown up against the concrete retaining wall around Dom's front lawn, and damned if that doesn't have him seeing stars for a second.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Buster?"

Finally, the cylinders in Brian's head are firing up. Vince. Vince is the one throwing him around like a sack of fucking potatoes, and sure enough, when he turns around, he sees Vince coming at him with his fist in the air.

He ducks just in time to avoid a hit that he's pretty sure would have knocked him dead unconscious, because his ears are already ringing and his head's already throbbing. He ducks, and he manages to catch Vince's midsection with his shoulder and push. He gets enough leverage on the bigger man to push him across the sidewalk and against his car, and Vince brings down a haymaker on his back, but he holds tight. He knows Vince is all about power; if he can keep it close, if he can keep Vince from getting the leverage he needs to put some power behind his punches, then he'll be alright.

Vaguely, he can hear a voice screaming in the background. He knows it's Mia, partly because he recognizes the voice, and partly because she's probably the only one that can shout at Dom that way and get away with it.

And oh, shit, Dom. She's screaming at Dom to get out here, and if past experience is any lesson, it's not gonna be long before he does. He doesn't take shit from anybody, but when Mia's shouting like that, he usually does what she says.

Vince, Brian can handle.

Dom, he doesn't think he can. Fuck it, he knows he can't. It's not just the fight; he doesn't want to see him. Doesn't want to hear him. Doesn't want to be in the same _zip code_ as him.

Which really sucks, because at the same time, there's that part of him that the beer's not really shoving back as much as it was that wants nothing more. He doesn't get it; he doesn't want to.

He needs to go.

He tries to do it, too. He tries to shove Vince off him enough to dive in the car and put some serious miles between him and this whole crew.

Only, it doesn't work out like that. He shoves Vince, but Vince manages to catch him in the gut with a sharp right upper before he tackles him to the ground. The screaming's louder now. It's not just Mia, anymore. He can hear Leon, shouting for Vince to let up, but Vince is like a goddamn pitbull. He's got Brian by the front of the shirt, and his hands are just a little too close to his neck for his liking.

"You spying on us?" he snaps, and Brian tries to ignore the spit on his face and focus on doing something productive, but really, he can't focus on much of anything. His heart is pounding in his ears, and all that exists, all that matters, is _getting the hell away._

Never let it be said he didn't learn anything from his time in the academy, short as it was. All that hand to hand, close-combat training pays off, and it's instinct for Brian to hook his leg around one of Vince's and buck his hips enough to throw the guy right off him.

And as soon as he's off, the roles are reversed. Brian's straddling him, he's got him by the front of the shirt, and it's just fucking survival. He ain't trying to kill him, just stun him enough to make a clean getaway, because _Jesus_, he's already running on fumes, and he isn't gonna last much longer.

But just as he's pulling back his arm to deliver finishing blow, something solid coils around his arm like python, and it's hauling him up and back, and there's exactly jack that Brian can do about it.

Any air he might've gotten back rushes from his lungs in a choked grunt as he's thrown back against the side of the car, and he's suddenly face to face with the one person in this whole damn world he thinks he might actually be afraid of.

"What the fuck, Dom?" Vince says from behind him. He's on his feet again, spitting off to the side and glaring daggers Brian's direction. "Pig's spying on us."

Dom turns back to Brian. "You spying on us?" His voice is dead even, that deep rumble that you feel as much as you hear.

Brian's trying to get his feet under him, but the angle Dom's got him at, pinned against the car, isn't great.

"I asked you a question, Brian." His voice is low and unyielding.

Brian's, by contrast, is breathy and tense as he shakes his head – not a good idea – and says, "No."

"Then what the fuck are you doing here?" Vince yells, and it takes everything Brian has not to wince.

Dom turns back to Vince. "Get back in the house."

"Dom, he's a goddamn cop—"

"I said get back in the house!" And when Dom shouts, everyone listens, whether they want to or not. Maybe not without protest, because Vince is cussing up a storm, but Brian watches with his heart still pounding bass drums in his ears as he climbs up the steps and disappears into the house.

When Dom turns back to him, Brian forces himself to stay steady. He isn't scared, he tells himself, even though deep down, he thinks he might be. He isn't, and he won't let himself be, because he can't afford to be.

"If you ain't spying, then what're you doing here?"

Brian's actually not sure how to answer that, but hell, he's a pretty good liar, so he gives it a shot. "Went for a drive last night," he says, licking his lips and trying not to grimace when he tastes blood. He thinks that's new. He thinks that's Vince's handiwork. But then again, he could be wrong. "Too tired to make it home, so I pulled over."

Dom seems to consider that for a second. His eyes are hard and searching and not a bit different from how Brian remembers them. He shifts uncomfortably despite himself.

"Too tired," Dom says finally, "or too drunk?"

Brian figures he either sees the booze in the passenger seat, or he can smell it on him. The way his nose is flaring, he thinks it's the latter, but then, Dom could also just be very, very pissed at him. With Dom, results tended to vary.

"Little bit of both," Brian admits. It's not a lie. It's not the whole truth, but it's not a lie. Which is good, because he thinks he really doesn't want to lie to Dom anymore.

Mercifully, Dom seems to think that's enough of an explanation for the time being, because his grip on Brian lets up a little bit, and he turns to leave.

Brian takes that as his cue to hit the road.

He's barely even got his door open, though, before Dom turns to him. "Just where do you think you're going?" he says. And there's an answer to his question; Brian knows there is. It just won't come to him yet. Dom's never been known for his patience, either. "Get your Barstow ass inside."

That, Brian thinks, is a terrible idea. A really bad, stupid, suicidal, all-around _terrible_ idea. Because he's a cop, still, and Dom hates cops.

He tells himself that's the only reason. It should be enough, anyway.

And yet, God help him, he's right behind Dom, trudging his sore self up the steps and down the sidewalk and through the door. He knows before he's even crossed the threshold that he's screwed, but he figures there's no going back.

"Mia," Dom calls as they come through the door. "Heat up the leftovers." He turns back to Brian just as he's shutting the door behind himself. "You hungry?"

"I'm fine."

"That ain't what I'm asking," Dom says, and it's hard to tell if he's amused or annoyed, but Brian's not looking push it either way. "I'm asking if you're hungry."

"I don't need you to feed me."

"I'll take that as a yes." He's definitely amused, Brian decides. Which should be a relief, but really, it just pisses him off. Subconsciously, he glances at the door, and wonders what the chances are he could make it out to his car before Dom caught him. He thinks he has him on speed – at least, he usually does; he's not so sure about right now, because he's sore as fuck – but if Dom catches him, then it's over.

And, he thinks, he's really kind of crazy for even thinking about it. It was breakfast, not a firing squad, but for some reason, there's a lump in his throat and a knot in his stomach, and he's itching to make a break for it.

"Go for that door, and I'm gonna drag your ass right back here," Dom says suddenly, as if he's read his mind. Brian knows better than to think it's an empty threat; Dom never says anything he doesn't mean, and although on any other day, Brian might've given it a shot just to see if he could, he's kind of starting to wonder how long he's just going to be able to stand upright, never mind running.

"Where's Vince?"

"You scared of him or something?"

Brian frowns. "I'm just not looking for a fight's all." He thinks he's reached his quota.

"That a new philosophy you're trying out?"

"Yeah." As of midnight this morning.

Dom just smirks. "Vince is in the living room. You're safe."

Brian knows he's making fun of him, so he pretends it doesn't feel good to hear those words. Especially after the morning he's had.

He tells himself that it's just because he's actually surprisingly hungry that he heads for the kitchen, and not because he doesn't have enough fight left him to argue. Or worse, that Dom is telling him to do it, and it's just really fucking hard to _not_ do what Dom says.

Dom wasn't lying; Vince isn't in the kitchen. But it sure ain't empty, and Brian's stomach drops to the soles of his feet when he sees Mia standing over the stove.

It only gets worse when she turns and smiles at him. There's no trace of it being forced. He can tell there's still some tension; he can still feel it. But she doesn't look angry. She doesn't look hurt.

Hell, if anything, she just looks worried.

"Jesus, Dom," she says, only it's not Dom she's coming up to; it's Brian. It takes all the self-control he has not to flinch back when she reaches for his chin. She runs her thumb gently under his lip, where he can feel the split starting to throb. He remembers when such a touch might've been romantic; now it's almost…motherly. "You always let it go too far."

When Mia lets go of his chin, he turns to see Dom leaning against the doorway of the kitchen. "They're big boys. They can handle themselves." But there's a look in his eyes as he says it that makes Brian wonder if maybe Mia is getting to him. When she goes to wet a washcloth, Dom waves her off. "I'll take care of it. You get to class."

Brian's a little curious about that, but he doesn't ask.

"It's good to see you again, Brian," Mia says. She stands on her toes to press a kiss to the top of his forehead, and then looks at her brother. "Make sure he sticks around until I get back."

Again, Brian's doesn't really ask what she means about it. He thinks she's teasing, by the wink she shoots his way, but she _is_ a Toretto, and he wouldn't put it past her.

He guesses it's a good thing he didn't have plans for the day.

Once Mia's gone, Brian turns see what Dom's up to. He passed Mia on her way out, and now he's fishing plates and cutlery out of the cabinets.

Brian's still trying to think of a protest when Dom drops a plate down on the table closest to where he's standing.

"Sit," he says. "Eat." It's clearly not a request.

"I told you I don't need you to feed me," Brian mutters, but all the same, he's sitting down. He's starting to feel a little shaky on his feet, and it feels good to get off them.

Dom sits down in the seat opposite him. He regards him for a minute, and Brian's really not sure what to do under the weight of his gaze. It's not the same hard stare as it was outside. It's intense, but it's not hard, and Brian feels a little like that time he saw him in the shop the first time: like he's being sized up, measured. He swallows thickly, and he's surprised by how dry his mouth is.

Suddenly, Dom's on his feet again. "You better eat that before it gets cold," he says as he reaches into the counter. The muscles of his back and arms tense and roll under his white undershirt, and Christ but he's built like a fucking tank.

He coughs and averts his eyes. It's not like he's never checked out a guy before. He can appreciate a good body on just about any make or model. And Dom…he has a good body. Better than good.

It's his presence, though, that's really got Brian floored. Mia told him once that Dom was like gravity, and Brian agrees, just not the way she explained it. Dom doesn't so much pull him in as keep him grounded. He's just…he's _solid_, and everything else is so fucked up and insane, and Brian's never noticed it more than he's noticing it now.

A glass appears in front of him, snapping him out of his headspace so suddenly he nearly jumps.

If Dom notices – which Brian's pretty sure he does – he doesn't say anything. He sits back down, a glass of his own in hand, and goes back to watching Brian.

With nothing else to do, Brian gives up and grabs the fork Dom set out for him. He pushes it around his plate a little before finally spearing a piece of sausage.

It only takes him a couple of bites to realize he's hungrier than he thought, and before long, he's practically inhaling the food. He doesn't remember curling his arm around his plate, leaning his head over it; it's habit. He didn't spend long in juvie, but some habits are hard to break. Shielding your food so the other guys can't steal it, because if they do, you're gonna go hungry.

Brian's gone hungry before, when his mom was having trouble with her job and they needed to make ends meet. Too proud to get school-sponsored lunch, he'd gone without. Which was fine, except sometimes, he went without breakfast, too. Sometimes, he went without dinner.

"Hey."

Dom's voice nearly makes Brian choke on a mouthful of scrambled eggs, and he snaps his head up. The other man's looking at him with an expression that falls somewhere between curiosity andsomething else that looks a lot like concern. His brows are furrowed, his arms folded across the table.

"Slow down before you choke," he says. "The food ain't going anywhere, and you got nowhere you gotta be." The way he says it, Brian gets the impression that even if he _did_ have somewhere to be, he wouldn't anymore.

He's not really sure what's going on; he's not sure why Dom's feeding him, sitting with him. He's not sure why Dom isn't beating the shit out of him like Vince was, because he knows he deserves it.

"You okay?"

Brian looks up again. "What?"

Dom's gaze is fixed; his voice is measured. "I said, 'are you okay?'."

"I'm fine."

"You sure?"

Dom isn't letting this go, Brian realizes. And there's more than just a question, there. He's already got something in his head.

He puts his fork down. "What's this about, Dom?"

"I should be asking you," Dom says. "You're the one sleeping in your car." He leans forward, and there's a decidedly frustrated look. "You should've come to me."

Brian furrows his brows. "What are you talking ab—" But then it hits him. "You think I'm living out of my car, Dom? Is that what you think?" It's insulting.

Dom doesn't say anything.

But then, he doesn't really need to. Brian's already pushing away from the table, his temper rising with the rest of him as he stands. "I'm not some fucking hobo," he snaps. "I've got a job, remember?" And in case Dom doesn't, Brian reaches into the pocket of his coat and slaps his badge down on the table. He's doing it right this time; no lies, no pretenses. He's going to be up front. "And I've still got that place out back of Harry's. I've got it under control." _I don't need you._

"This your idea of control, Brian?" Dom asks. He doesn't even raise his voice, doesn't even stand. He looks perfectly at ease, and that just pisses Brian off more. "Sleeping in your car, smelling like beer and acting like a starving stray?" He stands, then, leaning across the table with his arms braced on it. "What? Did you think I wouldn't notice? You look like shit, and you smell worse."

"You got a problem with me, Dom? Just say the word, I'm gone. Matter of fact—" He pockets his badge and starts for the door. He doesn't need this shit; he _can't_ deal with this shit.

He doesn't even make it to the kitchen door.

A hand closes around his wrist, turning him around, and for the second time that morning, he's face to face with Dominic Toretto.

"What you're gonna do right now," Dom starts, and his voice is that forced calm that's somehow even scarier than him yelling, "is go up those stairs right there and take a shower so you stop smelling like a fucking six-pack. Then you're gonna come back down here, and you and me are gonna have a long talk about what you been doing this past month and a half and what the _hell_ you were doing sleeping in my driveway. Do you understand?"

Brian scowls. His whole being rebels at being told what to do, at being bossed around. He gets enough of it at work; he doesn't need it here.

When he tries to wrench his hand away, though, Dom holds firm.

"I said," he repeats, "_do you understand_?"

Brian gives another futile jerk, and it's more because of pain than frustration that he lets out a sharp, "Fuck!" Surprise flashes across Dom's face, and he swallows thickly. "I get it, okay? I understand. Now will you let me go?"

And thank God, this time, Dom does. He's not excited about the stairs, and neither is…well, _any_ part of him, but it means getting away from Dom and that _look_ he's been giving him since he showed up, and that makes it worth it.

"Don't forget to wash behind your ears," he hears Dom call after him.

He makes sure to flip him the bird before he turns the corner.


	3. Chapter 3

The shower sucks.

He thought it would feel good, getting under the spray and letting the heat of the water soak into his sore muscles. He thought it'd be nice to get the beer out of his hair and get into some clean clothes.

Problem is, that's all easier said than done. Peeling off his clothes is a pain in pretty much everywhere _but_ his ass. His shirt's stuck to his back with dried booze and blood – that broken glass got him pretty good, he thinks – and he figures he probably got hit in the left knee at some point, because it's not real happy with him when he tries to kick off his jeans. He manages, though, stuffs his ruined t-shirt down one of the legs of his pants, balls the whole thing up in the corner, and steps in the shower.

That's the part that really sucks. He doesn't think the cuts on his back and knees are that bad, but the second the steaming water hits them, they might as well have been fucking shredded. His head's even worse. He thinks the back of it might be bleeding where that son of a bitch broke a bottle over it – the collar of his shirt was brown when he took it off – and his suspicions are confirmed when he touches it and his fingers come away red. It's not too bad; he doesn't even think anyone noticed.

Doesn't mean it's not a bitch to shampoo.

He's rinsing it out when there's a knock on the door, and he jumps so hard he nearly slips and falls.

"You decent in there?" It's not Dom's voice; it's Leon's. "I got some clothes for you."

It takes Brian a second to find his voice. "Yeah, come on in." It's not like the door's locked or anything. It doesn't even _have_ a lock. Leon's just being polite.

The door clicks, and there's a draft of cool air that lets him know it's open. "I'm just gonna leave these on the counter. Mia said she'll wash yours when she gets back, if you want me to take 'em down."

"Nah, man, I'll take care of it." The last thing he needs is for Mia to see his clothes and freak out. She's pretty cool about most things – with her family, Brian guesses she has to be – but she's a Toretto. And like a Toretto, like _Dom_, she's crazy protective of her own.

It's just…a different kind of crazy.

After that thing in the kitchen earlier, he's still trying to wrap his head around the idea that she still thinks of him like that: as one of her own. After all the shit he's pulled, he doesn't deserve it. He's not their problem, and he doesn't want to be. Not when he's just barely thinking he might still be their friend.

And to be honest, he's pretty fucking elated about that much.

"'Kay, bro," he hears Leon say. "Don't drown in there." Then the door clicks again, and he's alone.

He lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and lets his forehead fall against the tiles of the shower wall. It's not until the water starts going cold, God only knows how many minutes later, that he finally musters up the energy to shut it off and step out.

The clothes Leon left are just a t-shirt and some jeans. He thinks they're probably Leon's, because there's no way in hell he can wear anything of Dom's – too big – or Jesse's – too small – and Vince wouldn't let him borrow a dirty gym sock.

He shrugs it all on over his own boxers; it's a close enough fit, though he's grateful for the belt, and it all smells like that cologne Leon's always wearing.

He guesses anything's an improvement, though. It's not like he smelled like roses before. There's even an unopened toothbrush sitting on the counter, so his mouth doesn't taste like ass anymore, either.

So yeah, he still feels pretty shitty, but it's less shitty than he felt before, and he'll take that.

He's not breaking any land speed records coming down the stairs. He thinks about popping in the living room, but he hears the shouting before he's even halfway down the steps. Vince and Dom are having words, and he thinks it's probably best to leave them to it.

Especially since it sounds like he's the topic of conversation.

Instead, he heads for the door. He gets as far as turning the handle, though, before a voice stops him dead.

"You better not be leaving."

Brian turns to see Leon leaning back against the kitchen door, an apple in his hand.

"I'm just saying," he continues, "Mia'll have kittens. And Dom'll probably hunt your ass down." He pushes off the doorframe with a shrug. "Might as well just make it easy on yourself."

That's the kind of advice Brian gives the people he's arresting. _Might as well make it easy on yourself, because you're screwed either way._ Usually, it was just a question of how many blows they had to trade before it happened.

Brian tends to think he's pretty damn good in a fight. But right now, if it went to blows, he's thinking it wouldn't take very many to put him down. Especially not if Dom was the one throwing them.

He sighs. "I'm just throwing these in my car," he says. He doesn't wait for Leon's response to head out the door and out to his car. He's not gonna lie; there's a part of him that wants nothing more than to jump behind the wheel and go. As much as he wants to work this out – and Christ, he does; he misses these guys like crazy – he just doesn't think he has it in him right now. He thinks if he can just put some distance between them for just a little while longer, until he's finished with this thing with Yeung and the Little Saigons, then maybe he can come back and try again.

Only, it doesn't work like that. He knows it doesn't. So, he's changing his strategy. Instead of running like a dog with his tail between his legs, maybe, he thinks, he can start small. If he can just survive a day…he doesn't have a shift at the station tomorrow, but he's got to open for Harry, so he's got a good enough excuse to ditch later.

This is his chance. It's piss poor timing, it's completely accidental, but he'd forgotten what it's like to be here, to be a part of this, and…

And he wants it back.

There's a lump in his throat as he shoves his stuff in his car. He's got his arm braced on the roof, and he's taking in a breath through his nose. His ribs aren't gung-ho about deep breathing, but he needs to calm the fuck down, because his head's going ninety to nothing and his body feels like it can barely make a ten minute mile. He needs to find some middle ground.

He doesn't know how long he's been standing like that, head bowed over his car like he's praying or some shit. Not longer than a few minutes, he thinks, but long enough that when he straightens, his head spins.

The walk back to the house is longer than he remembers; the stairs, steeper. But hell, he's done more with worse, so he sucks in as deep a breath as his rib cage is gonna let him right now, and he steps inside to face the music.

"—bad news, Dom. He always has been!"

"I know people say that about you, too, Vince."

"Least I ain't a fuckin' cop."

That seems like as good a place as any to butt in. "Technically, I'm off the clock," he says, leaning back against the wall with his arms folded like he belongs there.

Vince is sitting on the couch, and Dom's in one of the chairs; they're both red in the face, but Vince looks like he's about to go atomic.

It only gets worse when he sees Brian standing there, and if looks could kill…well, Brian guesses he might even feel a little worse than he does, now. If only a little.

"Were you off the clock when you were selling us out, too?" he spits.

Brian smirks, pushing off the wall. He acts like it doesn't hurt; he'll die before he lets Vince see him so much as flinch. "Kinda hard to remember," he says. "But I know I was when I was saving your ass."

"Saving my ass?" That gets a rise out of Vince. A literal one – he's on his feet. "Let's get one thing straight, Buster," he says, closing the distance between him and Brian with hard, purposeful steps, "I. Don't. Owe. You. Nothing." He punctuates each word with a jab of his finger into Brian's chest, and yeah, it hurts.

He's still smirking, though.

"You done?"

He thinks, if he can catch the light right, he might be able to actually see steam coming out of Vincent's ears. Which should scare the hell out of him, but he's feeling pretty damn fearless.

"Am I done?" Vince's expression is somewhere between incredulous and just incredibly pissed off. Frankly, Brian doesn't know why he's so surprised. He's never backed down from Vince and his attitude before; he's not starting now.

He's getting ready to fire off another smartass remark that'll probably get him popped in the lip – again – but the couch creaks before he can get it out.

"You're both done," Dom says. He's making his way over, but he's taking his sweet time.

In the meantime, Brian's gone and let himself get distracted, so he doesn't notice Vince going for him until he's already got a hand twisted in the front of his shirt. He pulls him forward, and Brian just barely manages to keep his feet under him. He's thinking, before this is all said and done, that he might owe Leon a new shirt.

"It's bad enough his pig ass is stinking up the place," Vince is saying, and Brian resists the urge to point out that he ain't exactly shower fresh himself. "Now he's giving me lip."

Brian notices, though, that it's not _him_ Dom's glaring at.

"Lay off him, Vince."

"Dom—"

"I said lay off him!"

Apparently, Vince's idea of 'laying off' is shoving Brian into the TV set, but nothing breaks, so Brian isn't complaining. He brings his hand up to rub at his neck and tries not to think about how this is the _second_ time that morning Dom's saved his ass.

He's not gonna let that be a trend.

"Man, this is fucked up," Vince practically snarls. "Bringing him in here, acting like he's one of ours."

This time, it's _Vince_ getting his shirt grabbed, and Dom hauls him in close. He grinds something through his teeth that Brian can't quite hear over the subwoofer booming between his ears, and then he shoves Vince back.

Whatever he said, Vince isn't happy about it. "If he's here, then I ain't," he snaps.

Dom points, and Brian can see how hard he's tensed from the muscles in his arms. "Then there's the door."

Vince stands there for a second, and he's got that incredulous look again like he can't quite believe what's going on. Even from where he's standing, Brian can see the vein standing out on his forehead.

But then, he's moving. He shoots Brian a glare on his way out, but Brian just stands up a little straighter and stares right back. He's not scared. He got the shit kicked out of him a few hours ago by half a dozen angry Asians – Vince can bring it the fuck on.

He doesn't, though, and Brian doesn't blame him. He wouldn't cross Dom either if he could avoid it. And apparently Vince's way of avoiding it is to stomp out like a damn bull and slam the door behind him so hard it feels like the whole house shakes.

He stares at the door for a second, partly because he kind of wants to make sure Vince isn't gonna change his mind, but mostly because he's not sure he can bring himself to look at Dom just yet. He can practically _feel_ the guy's eyes on him, hard and intense. It's like he's looking for something, and Brian's kinda worried if he lets Dom look too close, he'll realize that whatever he's looking for…it ain't there.

"I should go." The words tumble from his mouth in a rush.

He hears the rustle of clothes behind him; he imagines Dom is crossing his arms. "What was that?"

Brian takes a deep breath, ignoring the sharp pain in his side when he does. "I said, 'I should go.'"

"Didn't your old man ever teach you to look at people when you're talking to them?"

That actually makes Brian smile, in a bitter, 'you have no idea' kind of way. "Nah, Dom. My old man didn't teach me shit." Except for how to take a hit, maybe, but even that's kind of fuzzy. Too many concussions, he guesses.

"Then consider yourself taught. Now turn around." He's not yelling anymore, but there's this weight in his voice, this firmness that doesn't just suggest obedience; it demands it.

Brian turns, and it takes every shred of pride and self-control he has left to force himself to meet his eyes. "I don't want any trouble," he says. "And I don't want to cause any."

"Then don't."

"That your way of saying you want me gone?"

Dom's lip twitches. "If I wanted you gone, you wouldn't still be standing here," he says, and Brian knows that's the truth. Dom could probably pick him up by the seat of his pants and throw him out the damn door, and there wouldn't be much of anything Brian could do to stop him.

He tells himself he'd put up a hell of a fight, though. It makes him feel a little better.

"So, what? You looking for some kind of apology?"

Dom shakes his head. "I think you've done enough apologizing."

Brian's not really sure what that means, but he's not stupid enough to ask. He sighs, running a hand through his hair, and he's careful not to get too close to the back. "Then what is it you want from me, Dom?" 'Cause he's pretty damn short on things to give.

If Dom can hear the frustration in his voice, he doesn't act like it. He doesn't even look amused like he usually does when Brian gets pissed off at him. The way his brows are furrowed, he just looks…serious.

"You can start by sitting down," he says, nodding his head towards the couch. "I think it's time you and I had that talk."


	4. Chapter 4

The couch is more comfortable than Brian remembers. It's old and worn out and smells, like pretty much everything else in that house, faintly of metal and motor oil. And between the feel and the smell, Brian figures it'd be too easy just to close his eyes and go to sleep right then and there.

Except he can't. Not with Dom's eyes burning holes in him from across the table.

"So, where've you been, Brian?" Dom asks finally, breaking the silence.

Brian shrugs. "Around." He's trying to be cool, even though he feels a little bit like he's being interrogated. And Bilkins ain't got shit on Dom.

"Still peddling parts for Harry?"

"Yeah. Still peddling parts for Harry." Damn, but this is awkward.

Dom doesn't seem to notice, though. He looks cool as frost, sitting there in his armchair. "What else you been doing?"

"Aside from fighting the good fight?" And getting in deep shit with the new Saigon leadership? "Not much."

"You're telling me cops are the ones running you so hard you can't even make it to your own damn bed?" Dom says, one eyebrow raised. It's not actually a question; it's Dom calling his bullshit.

Brian hates how easy he does it.

He shifts on the sofa and hopes Dom doesn't read too much into it. Yeah, he's uncomfortable as hell, but Dom doesn't need to know that. "Nah, man, I'm keeping busy. Got out my board again, been hitting the beach." He shrugs.

"Surfing, huh?" Brian doesn't think he's imagining the smirk on his lips.

"Something funny?"

"That all depends," Dom says. "You surf like you drive?" He isn't even trying to kill the grin on his face.

Brian finds he doesn't mind as much as he should. He even smiles a little himself.

"If you mean better than you," he shoots back, "then yeah."

Dom lets out a rumbling laugh. "Vince must've hit you harder than I thought."

It's Brian's turn to laugh. "Yeah, he wishes."

"He does." And even though he's still smiling, Brian gets the feeling Dom's not joking about that. They both know Vince would jump on the chance to beat him bloody if he could. "You should try to steer clear of him for a few days."

"A few days?" He likes how Dom just assumes he's sticking around that long.

Dom nods. "Give him time to cool off."

"What about you?"

"What about me?" The smile's starting to fall; Dom's getting serious again.

Brian doesn't let it get to him. "You need time to cool off, too?"

"I figure a month and a half's plenty of time."

"Come on, Dom, don't bullshit me."

And now, the smile's gone, and Dom's brows are furrowed. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and staring Brian down so hard it's almost _physical_. "You think I'm bullshitting you, Brian?"

"I think you aren't being real with me," Brian fires back. He knows he's getting a little sharp, a little fresh; he knows he needs to be careful about that with Dom. But hell, he figures it's never stopped him before. He's got a big mouth: always has and always will, and if it's one thing he can't stand, it's people playing him.

"Those are pretty big words coming from you."

There it is. Dom isn't yelling, but he can see the steeliness in his eyes, the set of his jaw. He's pissed about something, and it ain't hard to guess what.

This is his chance to set the record straight, he realizes. He owes Dom one hell of an apology. He owes all of them one, really; it just…feels like he owes one to Dom more. He's got a chance to do it now, while Dom's not too angry to hear him out. While he's feeling reckless enough to try.

It's now or never.

He takes as deep a breath as he can, scooting forward on the couch and mirroring Dom's position in a way. "Listen, Dom, I—" he stalls out. He knows what he needs to say, but he has no fucking clue how to say it. It's like all his thoughts are swimming around his head, and he can't quite catch them. He knows he has to try, though, so he runs his hand through his hair and starts again. "I screwed up. I know I did, and if I could take it back—"

"Leave it, Brian," Dom interrupts. "It's history."

"No!" Brian pushes himself to his feet, and he catches Dom's eyebrows jumping a little, but he's too worked up to care. "I know I—I pulled some serious shit on you guys. I lied to you, I sold you out."

"Almost."

Brian looks at him strangely.

Dom's just got that same dead even expression like he's holding himself back. "You _almost_ sold us out."

"That doesn't matter," Brian half sputters, half snaps. He's flustered, and it's even harder to think like this, damn it. He's so _fucked_. "What matters is that you trusted me, and I lied to you. You guys were good to me." That's such an understatement, it's funny. Except his laugh comes out sounding a little too much like a sob, and he pretends to pinch the bridge of his nose so he can rub his eyes without Dom noticing. He's not crying; he really, really isn't. He's just _so tired_.

When he drops his hands, he doesn't look up. He's staring down between his knees at the carpet and his own bare feet. "I had it better when I was running with you guys than I've ever had it, Dom…and I screwed it up. I can barely look you in the eyes – you and Mia. You should both hate me." He's not bitching; it's a matter of fact, and he's calling it like it is.

Dom apparently disagrees. "Mia doesn't hate you."

"I broke her heart."

"If you'd done that, we wouldn't be having this conversation," Dom deadpans. "I told you I'd break your neck, remember?"

Brian does remember that. He remembers him saying it while they were sitting in the garage in the heat of the day working on the Supra. He remembers the sort of awe he felt – the awe he _always _feels – seeing Dom in his element like that. The only thing more mind-blowing is seeing him behind the wheel.

Yeah, he remembers that. But Mia's face that night at Race Wars is burned just as deep in his head, and he can't…he can't understand how she could even stand to be in the same room as him. Much less smile at him. It doesn't make sense.

"She's moved on, Buster," Dom says. "So should you. It's time to stop living in the past."

That'd be great, Brian thinks. If it was that fucking easy, it would be great.

But it isn't, and Brian doesn't know that he'll ever be able to close his eyes without seeing the look on Mia's face…the look on _Dom's _face. Fuck. "I just…" he struggles to find the words. He doesn't know what he wants to say. He doesn't know what he _can_ say, except, "I'm sorry, Dom, and I know it's not enough, but it's all I got. I'm so fucking sorry…for everything."

"Everything?"

Brian looks up. He doesn't know if it's some sort of trick question, and he's too messed up to try to figure it out. And Dom isn't helping; his face is just as stony has it's been the whole damn time, and as he stands, he's got this stiffness about him. He's revved up, but he's holding back, but Brian can damn near hear the roar of an engine just beneath the hood.

"Yeah, you lied," Dom says, coming to stand just the other side of the table from Brian. "And if it'd been anyone else, I'd have busted their damn heads in."

Brian doesn't want to push his luck, but he has to know, "And what makes me so special?"

Dom doesn't respond immediately, and Brian wonders for a second if he's pushed too far. He sees Dom's hand disappear in his pocket, and his mind is coming up with all sorts of things that Dom could be pulling out – not that he needs a weapon to beat Brian into the carpet – but just before his head can catch up, Dom pulls his hand back out.

He's holding a set of keys. A very _familiar_ set of keys.

"These," Dom says. "You could've run. You could've let them put me in handcuffs, probably could've gotten yourself a promotion out of the deal. You could've put me in your rearview and never looked back. But you didn't. You risked your job, your _life_, for the team. For _me_." He reaches across the table, and Brian's too stunned to jump when his hand lands on his shoulder. "_That_ makes you special. That makes you family."

That's the word that does it, Brian thinks. _Family_. Fuck, but that's a heavy word.

"Besides, if it wasn't for you, Vince wouldn't be here. Jesse either."

There's a lump in Brian's throat, and he tries, unsuccessfully, to clear it. "How—" his voice catches, but he pretends not to notice, "How is Jesse?"

"He's fine," Dom says. If he minds the subject change, he doesn't mention it. "He was up late working on specs for a new build, so it'll probably be a while before he crawls out."

"But he's okay?"

"Yeah, he's okay."

Brian nearly slumps back into the couch. That'd weighed on him heavy the last month and a half. He'd gone to see him in the hospital, but the whole crew was there, and he'd lost his nerve in the parking garage. He's checked up on him a few times since, but hearing he's doing okay from Dom is almost as big a relief as Dom not kicking him to the curb, and honestly, he's thinking it's about time to call it a day.

Unfortunately, Dom has other ideas. Seems he's not done talking, yet.

"What about you?" he says. "You okay?"

The comment's so far out of left field it takes him a second to catch on. His knee jerk reaction is to say he's all good, but Dom isn't an idiot; he knows sleeping in his car, even if it's just once, doesn't paint a pretty picture.

So, instead, he gives a half-assed shrug. "I'm getting by."

Dom nods almost thoughtfully. "Is this the part where I ask if your idea of 'getting by' involves getting the shit kicked out of you?" he asks. "Or am I just supposed to pretend I don't notice you limping around like a three-legged dog?"

Brian feels his face heat up at the same time something cold and heavy settles in the pit of his stomach. There's a ringing in his ears so loud, he almost doesn't hear what Dom's saying.

"—t me see." And he's stepping around the table.

And on reflex, Brian's stepping back.

Dom stops, brows furrowing deeper. "Brian," he says slowly, his voice low kind of like he's talking to a stray or something. Brian figures he's got plenty of experience with that. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

Brian wonders just how freaked out he must look for Dom to say that, but then he realizes he probably just has to look about as freaked out as he feels. This isn't supposed to go down like this. Dom's not supposed to be looking at him like that. That look means he's worried, which means he gives a shit, which means if he finds out about the thing with the Little Saigon crew, things could go south. The last thing he wants is to stir up tensions between the crews. This is his _job_; Dom's not supposed to get involved.

"I don't want to make any trouble," Brian says. His voice comes out steady, which is a pleasant surprise, because his heart is pounding like fucking crazy, and his palms are starting to sweat. He tells himself to be cool, but it's not working.

It's just…something about Dom. It's like he's looking right through him. It's like he already knows everything, and he's just waiting for Brian to actually tell him. It's insane, and it's nerve-wracking, and at the same time, it's more of a rush than any quarter-mile Brian's ever run.

His knee's smarting as he takes another step back. Dom took one forward, and he's just doing the dance. It's reflex to stay outside Dom's range. He's a pretty confident fighter, but despite that – or maybe _because_ of that – he knows better than to be where Dom can reach him. Because then there's no getting out, and he knows that.

Dom's brows just furrow deeper. "There's not gonna be any trouble. Just sit down."

"I can't."

"You can't, or you won't?"

Brian shakes his head, and he nearly blacks out for his trouble. As it is, he ends up stumbling back into one of the half-wall pillars, which sucks. His back thinks so, at least, especially up around his shoulder blades. "I can't, Dom," he manages to say. "Just leave it, okay? I'm fine."

"You're whiter than my damn shirt."

"I said I'm fine!"

"And I said sit your ass down on that couch!" Dom's voice seems to shake the whole damn house, and Brian grits his teeth.

He has to get his shit together, he thinks. He can't get Dom involved in his fights; he can't let him _fight_ his fights. It's not his job, and it's not his problem, and…

And fuck it. Brian'll die before he sees Dom get hurt trying to look out for him.

That thought, that image in his head is all the fuel he needs. He pushes himself off the column and makes for the door as fast as he can without all out sprinting.

"Brian!" Dom shouts after him, and the heavy thuds of his footsteps follow soon after.

Brian's already at the door, though. He doesn't bother putting his sneakers on; he just grabs them, and with his keys already in hand, he practically jogs down the porch steps and sidewalk.

He hears the door slam as he reaches his car, but he's got his own door open, so he doesn't really care. Maybe it's irrational. Fuck, it's definitely irrational, running out like this. And if he wanted to make a good impression, this ain't it. But he's just—he's just _scared_, and he doesn't even really know of what. His whole body is in fight or flight mode, and there's so many reasons, and he'll figure them out when he's out of—

A pair of arms close around his middle, and all the sudden, he's being jerked back. His bare feet literally leave the ground as he's hauled away from his open door.

He manages to twist loose, turning because it's a hell of a lot easier to fight someone you can see.

Dom doesn't let him, though. He grabs him by the wrist, and before Brian can stop him, he's pulling his arm up behind his back and shoving him forward with enough force to double him over the hood of the car. He doesn't think he's trying to hurt him; scratch that, he _knows_ he isn't trying to hurt him, because then he would've gone through the damn hood instead of against it. But still,

It hurts. Christ, it hurts, and all the air's gone from his lungs. And what little isn't, he's using to shout at Dom to let him go. He struggles, tries to shrug him off, but he was right before – there's no getting out.

"Please, Dom," he tries, and he's finding out that it's really hard to talk like this, because his chest is on fire and his cheek is pressed up against the hood of the car. "You gotta let me go."

But Dom's not listening. At least, he doesn't think he is. He's cursing, and the next thing he knows, Dom's pulling up the back of his shirt and cursing even louder. Vaguely – and probably a little bit hysterically – Brian wonders if it was the cuts that got him, or the bruises, because he's got plenty of both.

Not that it really matters.

"Damn it, Dom, lay off!" he shouts. He throws his weight back as hard as he can, and he thinks he catches Dom off balance, because he feels his grip loosen a bit. He uses it to his advantage, shifts his weight to his front leg, and lands a kick with his bare heel straight to Dom's shin. It goes against all his training – knee or groin, they said at the academy; always go for the knee or groin – but the whole point of this exercise is to _not_ get Dom hurt. He's not cocky enough to think he could really hurt him, at least not in the shape he's in now, but it's the principle of the thing.

Besides, the shin does the trick. He manages to get loose, and he's thinking he can run around the hood of the car and just climb across the passenger seat.

He makes it as far as the right headlight.

"Brian!" Dom's voice stops Brian dead. Because he's not just shouting. He's not just angry. It's something…else. "_Stop running!_"

It's too much like an echo of a month and a half ago, only it's backwards. Everything's backwards. Brian clenches his fist, and he doesn't turn around. He can't. Because if he turns around, and he sees Dom's face…if it's got the same pleading, the same worry, the same _feeling_ his voice has, then he's done for.

"I'm not your problem, Dom," he says. His voice sounds shaky even to him.

"Not my problem?" He almost sounds indignant, except the word doesn't really do it justice. Hurt. Hurt is a better word. "What do you mean, 'not my problem'?"

"I mean you don't—you don't owe me anything, okay?"

"You think I'm doing this because I think I owe you something?"

"I don't know why you're doing this!" Brian snaps, turning around.

And yeah, he was right. Just like those months ago when they handed him the folder, he's fucked the moment he lays eyes on Dom.

The look on Dom's face is hard to describe. There's the hurt – that strikes a pain in Brian's chest that's worse than any busted rib – but there's this kind of disbelief, too. Like Brian's just said something so out there, he can't even wrap his head around it.

Brian can't move as Dom steps towards him. He can barely even remember how to breathe, even though he's sucking wind like he just ran a marathon.

Dom stops less than a yard away from him, and there's a look in his eyes that scares the living hell out of Brian. It's not angry. It's not even concern. It's just…it's _pure_, and it's passionate, and it's like there's a fire burning in there that was lit just for him.

"You're family," he says, like that explains everything. To Dom, Brian thinks, it probably does. "Now come on. Inside."

He knows what he should do. He knows he should get in his car and drive away before he ends up screwing things up again. He knows he should have to work harder to get to be called 'family' again.

But…Christ, he's tired. The first step he takes – towards the house or towards the car; it doesn't matter – he stumbles.

And then Dom's putting an arm around his waist and pulling one of Brian's over his shoulder, and Brian's not sure how much of his own weight he's hauling, but he's pretty sure it's not an even share.

Dom doesn't seem to mind, though. "Home sweet home," he says as they make it through the front door.

Brian doesn't disagree.


	5. Chapter 5

Leon's waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs when they come through the door.

"I heard shouting," he says, a little out of breath. But then he lays eyes on Brian, on how Dom's playing human crutch, and he frowns. "What happened?"

Dom shakes his head. "Later. Go call Mia, tell her we're gonna need her to play nurse. Buster here's gone and got himself busted."

Leon glances over at Brian, gives him the up-and-down, and ducks off into the kitchen. Brian can hear him taking the phone out of the cradle as Dom starts steering him into the living room.

His head is a little clearer, now. He's gotten over getting manhandled, and he thinks he can probably walk for himself. He tries to tell Dom as much, but the words get lost somewhere between his head and his mouth, and before he can find them, Dom's already got him over to the couch.

"Sit." Not that he gives Brian much of a choice. The couch hits the backs of his knees at the same time Dom ducks out from under his arm, and it's pretty much a controlled fall from there.

Brian pretends he isn't painfully aware of Dom's hand still resting on his hip, and instead focuses on trying to look annoyed. "I'm not a dog, Dom," he says.

"Could've fooled me. You got that kicked puppy shit down to an art." Dom's smiling as he says it, that fond and kinda goofy one, and it's making it really hard for Brian to resent that remark. "Throw in those curls of yours, you're a regular golden retriever."

Hard, he said. Not impossible.

"Hey, man, don't hate."

"Oh, I'm not hatin'," Dom says. "I'm just wondering if all that hair of yours is cutting off blood to your brain."

Somewhere in the back of Brian's head, it registers that Dom just called him an idiot, but he's too caught up in the familiarity and security of all this – the Toretto house, that goofy ass grin on Dom's face, the easy back-and-forth – to really even care.

But then, with the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs, the spell's broken. Dom's grin falls, and he takes his hand away from Brian's hip as he straightens and turns to look at Leon who's just come into the room.

"What'd she say?" he asks. His voice is serious again, and Brian's almost…disappointed. It was easy to forget the shit he's in when Dom was smiling, easy to be happy when Dom was – Dom has that effect on a lot of people, he tells himself – but it's back to reality, now. A reality where Brian's an undercover cop again that got beat up in the line of duty, and Dom's on about a dozen watchlists and can't afford to get caught doing something stupid like shoving some guy's Yamaha right up his ass.

When he bothers to look, Brian sees Leon handing Dom a bottle of water and an orange pill bottle. "She said give him one of these, make him drink that, and get him to sit still. She's about thirty minutes out. Has to stop by the pharmacy."

Dom frowns, but nods, and with the two bottles in hand, he comes back over to Brian.

"Yo, Dom," Leon says right about as Dom reaches the coffee table, "you want me to grab some ice for his knee?"

Brian falters. How did Leon—?

"Yeah." Dom's voice snaps him out of his stupor. "And get me a rag while you're in there, would ya?"

"No problem, bro," Leon calls back. He's already headed back to the kitchen when he does.

Brian watches him go, but when he's out of line of sight, he turns back to Dom with narrowed eyes. "You told him?" If it sounds like an accusation, that's because it is one.

"I didn't tell him shit," Dom says. His voice is measured again, and he's sat himself down on the coffee table in front of Brian so close their knees are nearly knocking. He's acting like his full attention is on shaking out one of the pills from the bottle. "I didn't have to. You've been favoring that leg since you showed up." He holds out his hand, and there's a single white pill in it. "Here."

Brian eyes the pill. The street rat in him wants him to ask what it is. The cop in him wants to ask where Dom got it.

The man in him, though, the flesh and blood man, just wants to stop feeling like someone's run him over and set him on fire, and it knows that Dom's offering a way to make that happen.

Besides, the way Dom's looking at him…maybe it's wishful thinking, but fuck, he's looking at him like he's…like he's something valuable. Something precious. And it's stupid and pathetic, but Brian's having a hard time thinking of things he _wouldn't_ do for the other man. He nearly threw his career away for him; tossing back a pill doesn't seem like that big a deal.

And anyway, Brian figures if Dom wanted to kill him, he wouldn't do it with drugs. And he probably wouldn't give him breakfast and a shower first.

Dom's waiting patiently when Brian finally comes to his decision, and Brian can feel his eyes on him as he takes the pill and dry swallows it. He's waiting with the water bottle, lid already off, and Brian chugs a few mouthfuls, if not to make Dom happy, then because there's no coating on the pill, and he's kind of hoping to get the taste out of his mouth.

"Tastes like shit, huh?" He looks sympathetic, but he looks pleased, too, so it's hard to tell.

Brian swishes some of the water around his mouth, swallows, and nods.

"Yeah," Dom says, and Brian gets the impression he's been where Brian is right now. He wonders if he looked at the bottle, if he'd see Dom's name on the script. "It'll be worth it later, though. Trust me."

He does. Part of him thinks he always has, since the moment he locked eyes with him in the convenience store. Which, in hindsight, probably should've warned him off the case, but he was too headstrong to notice.

He's still headstrong. Only now, he does notice, and he knows it's ten kinds of bad news, but…he kind of likes what he sees.

Maybe Mia was right, he thinks. Maybe Dom really does own him, now.

That should really bother him a lot more than it does.

"—he still with us?"

Brian's head snaps up – he doesn't actually remember putting it down – at the sound of Leon's voice, and he frowns. He didn't even hear him come in.

Leon's there, though, handing Dom a bag of ice wrapped up in a dish towel. There's a serving bowl on the coffee table that Brian doesn't think was there before, with a rag slung over the ."

"How about it, Bri? You still with us?" Dom says.

He was, Brian thinks. But now he's trying to remember the last time Dom called him _Bri_, and he's drawing blanks. Buster, he's heard. Spilner. O'Connor. But Bri? That's new.

"I don't think he's firing on all eight cylinders," he hears Leon say.

Dom just smiles. "He'll catch up."

"You think?"

"I'm still here, you know," Brian mutters. Maybe not _all_ there, but he's there, and he doesn't care for being talked about like he isn't.

Leon holds up his hands. "My bad, bro. I didn't mean anything by it." And Brian knows he didn't.

"No worries, man."

That earns him a smile, before Leon turns back to Dom. "Anything else you need?"

"Nah," Dom says. "Is Jesse still asleep?"

"Was last time I checked. You want me to go get him up?"

Dom shakes his head. "Just keep an eye out. Keep him out of here, least 'til we're all cleaned up."

Looking between him and Leon, Brian gets the impression that there's something he's missing in this whole exchange. And as soon as Leon leaves the room, he turns to Dom to get filled in.

"Wanna tell me what that was about?"

"First things first," Dom says. "Take your shirt off." Brian thinks he must have looked at him funny, because Dom frowns. "Did I stutter?"

"I thought Mia wasn't gonna be here for another half hour." It doesn't make sense for him to take off his shirt, now. He'll just be cold and half naked, and neither of those thoughts are all that appealing.

But Dom doesn't relent. Of course he doesn't. "We can get started without her," he says. Again, Brian thinks he has to be giving him a strange look, because he gives a strangely patient sigh and leans forward a little on the table. Their knees are definitely brushing, now, and he thinks he notices it a lot more than he should. "This ain't my first rodeo, Brian. I know what I'm doing. So trust me, okay? Lose the shirt."

Hesitantly, Brian does, although he finds it's a lot easier said than done. Everything's stiffened up, and he thinks some of the blood has dried – he definitely owes Leon a new shirt – because it feels tacky and pulls at the tender skin on his back.

Because this whole thing wasn't humiliating enough, he can't do it. There's just something that's not working between his sore ass shoulders and his messed up back, and Leon's damn shirt, because he can't get it up much more than halfway up his back.

"Here," Dom says after Brian finally gives up. He can't help wondering how hard Dom had to work to wait even that long, but he's grateful that he did. "Let me help."

"Thanks," Brian mumbles. He _is_ grateful, after all. He appreciates the help, he really does. But he's feeling pretty damn useless right about now, and he just feels like one giant exposed nerve.

"Don't mention it," Dom says. He sounds distracted, and Brian tenses as Dom starts to stand. Dom notices. "Take it easy. I'm just getting a better seat." Which is apparently on the couch beside Brian. "Turn around."

Part of Brian wants to argue. He doesn't like being bossed around, even by Dom. But the rest of him is just too tired, so gingerly, he turns around on the couch so that he's got his back to Dom and his good leg folded up in front of him. He's not really sure what to do with the other until Dom, with one hand – damn him and his bowling-ball biceps – drags the table closer to the couch and pushes it towards Brian's side of the couch.

"Prop it up on that," he says, and once he has, Dom pushes the table a little more so that it's perfect. It's not exactly the most comfortable position, with the way his belt's biting into the bruises on his stomach and his bad knee's stretched out, but it's not too bad. The ice helps, too.

Still, he nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels fingers brush the base of his spine.

"_Relax_, Brian," Dom's voice rumbles up from behind him. He doesn't sound annoyed or even amused; he just sounds…reassuring. Calming.

Brian holds onto that calm as he feels the pull and sting of the shirt coming up again. He tries to help as much as he can, but all that really constitutes is moving his arms when he needs to and tugging the shirt the rest of the way over his head.

He can practically _feel_ Dom tensing behind him. He can imagine his eyes burning holes in his back, and his hairs stand on end from the intensity of it. His face flushes, and he shifts uncomfortably, and it takes everything he has not to turn his head just to get a look at Dom, just to see what kind of face he's making.

Just to see what he's thinking.

"Who did this to you?" Dom's words are colder than the ice on Brian's knee. Each one is measured, but they seem to grind from between Dom's teeth like oil through gears. There's that barely-controlled rage there, just beneath the surface. The kind that Brian knows can, has, and may in the future put a man in the hospital.

And that's why he can't tell him. He can't risk Dom doing anything that would jeopardize what he has, what he's worked so hard to build and protect. What Brian _wants_ to protect.

"Leave it, Dom," Brian says. He's studying the pattern on the arm of the couch like it holds the secrets of the universe. Except he doesn't really care about the secrets of the universe; he'd settle for the secrets of one man. Why the hell would he get like this for _Brian_ of all people? After all the shit he'd pulled…he knew he couldn't make up for that. He'd accepted that. And yet, here he is, Dom torn somewhere between taking care of him and taking care of the people who put him in such bad shape to begin with.

It's uncomfortable as hell, yeah. But at the same time, knowing Dom cares about him enough to get like this makes him feel…warm. Almost happy, even. Like he wants to smile or laugh, or maybe just close his eyes and lean back and pretend that nothing else existed for a little while.

As if it could ever be that easy.

"Brian," Dom's hand settles on his hip, and Brian wonders briefly why he puts it there, before realizing that might be the only part of him that isn't scuffed up or bruised, "I need you to tell me what happened."

Brian scrubs his face, trying to buy some time until he can think of some way to explain this to Dom that won't get either of them in trouble.

"Please, Dom," he says when he comes up with nothing better. "You just gotta trust me." And he wishes like hell he didn't have his back to Dom right now, because this is a conversation he really needs to have to his face. He needs to be able to gauge him, but he can't even see his face. It makes it hard to know how this is playing out.

"No, you need to trust me, Brian. If you're in some kind of trouble, I need to know about it. Now."

There's an implication there. He doesn't just need to know for Brian's sake. He needs to know for everyone. And even though, logically, Brian gets where he's coming from, he can't help bristling. He turns on Dom as much as he can, eyes narrowed. "If you think I'd bring something here, get you guys involved in something after everything I went through trying to clear you, then I don't even know what I'm doing here, Dom." He starts to get up; he's going to leave, like he should've done hours ago. Only, he can barely push himself up on the couch an inch or two before his ribs spasm. At the same time, Dom's pulling him back down by his hips, and he's fucked either way. He drops back onto the couch, and frustration has his eyes burning as he lashes out an elbow into the back of the couch. "Shit!" He's so fucking sick of this. Of not knowing how he feels – or worse, of knowing how he feels and not knowing why he feels that way and what the hell to do with those feelings – of being helpless, of getting pushed around by people like a fucking puppet.

He's just so fucking _tired._

"Hey." Dom's voice startles him, but he can't even manage a good jump. He starts to slump forward, but his ribs won't even let him do that, and his breath catches. "You ain't going anywhere. Understand?"

Brian lets out a chuckle that's probably not really a chuckle, but he refuses to think about what else it might be. "Couldn't if I wanted to."

"You don't want to." It's not a question. Dom knows him. And yeah, it's so many kinds of stupid it's insane, but he _does_ want to be here. It's better than being back at Harry's, alone, licking his wounds in peace with a bottle of painkillers and nothing but the street noises and the hum of a television to keep him company.

Nah, staying's not the problem. It's explaining where things get tricky.

"How about this: we get you taken care of for now, and we can talk about the rest later." It goes without saying that there _will_ be a later – it's just the time that's in question – but Brian still knows that's one hell of an olive branch. He saw Dom's face when he turned around, saw how red it was, how angry his eyes were.

He doesn't remember ever seeing his eyes like that. The closest he could think of was the moment when Dom found out he was a cop, but even that…that'd been different. That'd been anger, too, but it'd been other things. Betrayal. Hurt. This…this was pure fury, and for all the shit going on, Brian can at least be glad that fury isn't for him.

Well, he thinks, it's not _at_ him. A part of him kind of likes to think that it's _for_ him.

"Yeah," he says finally. "Sounds good."

He can almost feel a little bit of the chill leaving the air.

Dom squeezes his hip, briefly, and then lets go of him altogether. Brian tries to pretend he doesn't feel the loss, and instead focuses on the shifting of the couch behind him as Dom reaches for something on the table.

"Better buckle up, then, Bri. You've got a hell of a ride ahead of you."


	6. Chapter 6

Dom wasn't kidding.

Brian knows the second the wet wash cloth touches his back that this is gonna be hell. It sure burns like it. It's more than just the sting of water on an open cut; that, he can handle. It's there, too, but he can feel his pulse in his back, too. It's this hot sort of ache that makes him flinch away, whether he wants to or not.

But Dom reaches around and stops him with a palm over his collarbone. "Hold still," he says.

"I'm trying." He really is; he's tensed so hard he thinks he's damn near shaking trying to do it, too. Each swipe of the cloth over his back, as gentle as it is – and Dom really is being gentle, which Brian isn't really sure how to take, but he's sure as shit not going to complain – hurts like hell, and every time he even thinks about moving, his ribs just make it worse. The only thing keeping him from curling into a ball and pretending he doesn't exist is Dom's hand holding him in place.

It's quiet for a few seconds, but then, out of the blue, Dom says, "You asked about Jesse?"

Brian's not an idiot. He knows Dom's changing the subject on purpose. But he also knows he's trying to take his mind off it, and he's grateful for that. So, he goes along with it. "Yeah," he says. His voice is clipped, despite his best efforts to sound normal. "Yeah, I did."

Dom hums, like he's pleased Brian's taken the bait, but not surprised. Never surprised. He's not even sure Dom knows how to be surprised. "Jesse doesn't handle blood so well anymore."

It's not much, but then, Dom's always been good at saying a lot with a little. As opposed to Brian himself, who usually just says a lot. He thinks they're a good match.

And he's really, really glad he's got his back to Dom now, because it'd be kind of hard to explain why his face heats up.

He clears his throat, coughs, winces. Fuck you very much, Kevin Yeung, he thinks.

"I don't blame him," he says. "He almost died." If it hadn't been for Mia's nurse training and Leon's quick driving, he probably would have.

He imagines Dom nodding behind him. "He was in a coma for a week. But you already know that, don't you, Brian?"

For the umpteenth time that day, Brian knows he's been caught. He _does_ have the good sense not to slump or sigh, though. "You saw me."

"You're slick, Buster, but you're not that slick," Dom says. There's a hint of a smile in his voice, but there's something else there, too. "Why do you think you've never seen any of the crew at Harry's?"

For a second, Brian doesn't understand, but then…his eyes widen. "You…" he stalls out. He doesn't understand. Dom knew…of course he knew where he was, but he avoided him? He made the whole crew avoid him? For some reason, the thought makes Brian' stomach sink. "Why? Why didn't you—" He doesn't know how to finish that. Why didn't you come by? Why didn't you tell me you didn't hate me? Why didn't you…why didn't you say I could come back?

"Because," Dom's voice is quiet, but firm and steady and _fuck_ there's a lump the size of a softball in Brian's throat, "it had to be your idea."

And Brian's really not sure what to do with that. He wants to be angry, because…because maybe it's stupid and naïve to believe that things could be any different, but he thinks that it could've been his idea a lot sooner if he'd known. So, yeah, he _really_ wants to be angry.

Only, he can't. He _actually_ can't.

Suddenly, Brian's standing. He's trying, anyway, but his limbs feel a little detached. He manages to get the table pushed out enough to stand up, but as soon as he gets upright, the world starts to tip on its side. He tries to ignore it, tries to grit his teeth, but even the pain, as bad as it is, feels far off and fuzzy.

"Brian?" Dom asks. The couch springs creak as he stands up.

Brian doesn't look. He's got a hand to his head, because irrational as it is, he feels like it's about to fall off his shoulders. Or float. One of the two.

"Brian?" Dom asks again, a little more urgently this time.

It sounds far off, and Brian feels something that's a lot like fear curling in the pit of his gut. "Dom, man, I don't—I don't feel right." The world seems to be rocking back and forth, and he's kind of wishing he wasn't standing in the middle of the living room. Nothing to hold onto.

Except there is. Or, no, there's something holding onto him. Strong hands gripping his upper arms, holding him steady. When he opens his eyes – because apparently, and this is news to him, he closed them – he sees Dom looking at him. He doesn't look nearly as concerned as Brian thinks he should, because he's pretty sure it's not normal for the world to _literally_ revolve around him. He knows _he's_ worried; he thinks Dom should be, too.

"You're okay, Bri," Dom says. He's holding onto him, grounding him, and even through the haze, Brian's grateful for that. "You're just a little high."

That word triggers something in his head, and he furrows his brows. At least, he thinks he does. His face feels a little numb, like there's a connection between his brain and it and everything else that's short-circuiting. He thinks that's why it takes so long for it to come to him.

"What'd you give me?" He knew he should've asked what it was. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He feels sick, and he tries to push away from Dom, but Dom's not letting him. Which is probably for the best, because he's not sure he could stay on his feet if he did.

But no, Dom's not letting go. "Lortab," he tells him. "It's just a—"

"Painkiller." He wants to explain that he's had it before, but his stomach's up in his throat, and he's not willing to risk it. Dom's being pretty great about this whole thing, but he's not sure he would take too well to having Brian hurl all over him. He nods instead, which also turns out to be a mistake. The whole room kind of flips, and his stomach's right there with it.

Mercifully, Dom's still got him, and even though Brian's not really sure about moving just yet, he's marching him backwards. "Come on," he says. "You need to lay down."

Brian thinks he should have something to say about that, but for the life of him, he can't think of what it is. Before he can muster anything up, the couch is hitting the backs of his knees, and he's sitting down. He starts to lay down, but Dom catches him, and he's holding a bottle of water in front of him.

He thinks he might make a sound in the back of his throat, and he thinks it might sound a little like a whimper, but he's hoping it's just his imagination.

Frowning, he takes the water Dom's holding out and drinks enough, he thinks, to make him happy before he hands it back.

Dom takes it, screws the cap back on, and sets it aside. In the time it takes Brian to blink – to be fair, he can't say with any confidence how long that takes right now; his eyes are really fucking heavy – he's turned back to Brian, and he's half pushing him forward onto the couch. His breath hitches as his ribs protest the movement, but he's not gonna lie: it feels _really_ good to be lying down.

His eyes are already starting to close when Dom's lifting his head up. He grumbles a protest, but Dom's slipping a pillow under his head, so he lets it taper off and wraps his arms around the mass of fluff. He can smell Him – capital 'h' – on it, all metal and motor oil and something strong and spicy and uniquely _Dom_, and he buries his nose in it because it smells like home, and he could really use one of those right about now.

His stomach's sore, and lying on it isn't all that comfortable, but he's so tired he really doesn't care. Besides, it feels kind of like his head's wrapped in cotton, and that kind of freaks him out, but at the same time, it's kind of great.

Vaguely, he's aware that Dom's talking to him, but he doesn't think he's supposed to be replying. It just kind of sounds like filler, his voice low and steady and lapping at the edge of Brian's awareness like waves. He could sleep to that sound.

He kind of does.

He's not really sure how long he's there, stuck in that warm, woozy place between sleep and drug-muddled consciousness. He's pretty sure Dom's finished cleaning the cuts on his back, because he feels the not-too-heavy warmth of a blanket.

But then there's the sound of a door opening, and it's like high-beams breaking through the fog in his head. He starts, taking in a sharp breath that – _ow, fuck_ – really hurts and trying to push himself up on his arms.

He doesn't get far before there's a hand between his shoulder blades, somehow finding the one spot that didn't get shredded by broken glass. "Easy, Buster," Dom says. "It's just Mia." He's pushing Brian back down, not hard, but it doesn't really have to be. His nerves are on edge, as much as they can be, but he lets Dom push him back to the couch. His hand, Brian notices, doesn't leave his back.

That's probably smart, he thinks. He's not sure he's happy about it, but it's probably smart, because when he hears the sound of Mia's light, but purposeful footsteps, he tries to turn to look at her. He gets his head turned, but he can't really manage much else. He can barely see her hip, and that's not really all that helpful.

He can hear just fine, though, and even though his Spanish is a little rusty, he's pretty sure Mia's talking about him. She sounds upset, and he feels a pang of guilt in his chest. He wants to push himself up and tell her he's fine like a big boy and stop causing trouble. But unfortunately, he can't. He tries, but even if he was entirely sure which way was up – which he can't say he is with any confidence – Dom's still got a hand on his back. And his thumb is smoothing over the bone at the base of his neck, and Brian's thinking it feels really kind of nice.

Then it leaves, though, and there's suddenly a massive flurry of motion around him that makes Brian's stomach roll. The floorboards are creaking under the carpet, something that sounds like a plastic bag with boxes inside is hitting the wooden table, and the couch dips a little.

A groan breaks from his throat, and he thinks he might be sick. But then Dom's hand settles, this time on the back of his neck, warm and big and gentle. His fingertips are brushing through the short hairs at the base of Brian's head, and he focuses on that.

Mia mutters a soft warning, and for a second, he feels her cool, soft hands – Jesus, he thinks, how can two siblings be so completely different and still so much alike – before it's all lost to the sharp sting of what has to be alcohol across the cuts on his back.

He hisses, his fingers tightening to fists in the pillow.

"Breathe, Brian," Dom reminds him, because apparently, he was forgetting. "Just keep breathing. You're alright."

Brian doesn't feel alright. He feels sick and fuzzy, and he's not really sure what Mia's doing right now, but it doesn't exactly feel like a hand job from an angel. Not that he holds that against her.

"Some of these are going to need stitches," he hears Mia say.

He just buries his head deeper in the pillow. His eyes blink open a little, but everything's out of focus. He thinks he might be crying. He really hopes he isn't.

He sees white. A shirt. Tan skin. A face. Dom. His mouth is moving, but he's not looking at Brian.

The first prick of what is _definitely_ a big ass needle makes Brian tense. He reflexively bows his back away from it, but unfortunately, there's really not very far he can go.

Dom's looking at him, now. He's still got a hand on the back of Brian's neck, but he's got the other on Brian's wrist, and Brian can't help noticing, a little bit hysterically – his ADHD must be kicking in – how Dom's hand fucking dwarfs his. And even squatting like he is, he's at eye-level.

The guy's built. _American muscle_, he thinks with a delirious sort of grin.

"Something funny?" Dom asks him.

But Brian just shakes his head as much as he can and closes his eyes.

"You're crazy," he hears Dom say, but there's that smile in his voice again, and he gives Brian's wrist a squeeze. "Go to sleep."

Brian thinks that's the best idea he's heard all day, and with the meds fogging up his head again and the pain dulling back down to bearable levels, he does.


	7. Chapter 7

The first thing Brian notices when he starts to come to is that he's warm. And that's kind of new for him, he thinks, because Harry's is always cold as balls, and his shitty little space heater doesn't usually do a whole hell of a lot to keep the chill out.

It's gone now, though. He's warm, and his blankets feel thicker than he remembers. The bed feels softer, too; he can't even feel any springs poking into his back, much less the bars of the cot underneath. For a second, he kind of wonders why that is.

And then it hits him.

This isn't his bed.

It's like a face full of ice water. He gasps and jerks upright and _shit_ that was a bad idea, because his whole body lights up fucking Christmas Tree. His stomach does a somersault, and he thinks he makes it more or less sitting up because he's got his legs over the side of the bed, but he can't be sure, because the world's fishtailing around him.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Brian's head snaps towards the source of the sound, which turns out to be a mistake, because for a second there, he's genuinely afraid it's going to topple off his shoulders.

He blinks, and when he opens his eyes again, Dom's there, crouching down in front of him. And it's kind of unfair, he thinks, that someone that big should be able to move that quick and that quiet, but it's kind of hard to be bitter when he's almost positive the guy's hands on his shoulders are the only things keeping him from falling flat on his face like an idiot.

Still, he flinches when one of the hands leaves his shoulder and moves towards his face.

Dom doesn't pull his hand away, though, just moves it a little slower until it's flush against Brian's cheek. "Easy, Bri," he says, and his voice is low and steady and with everything else spinning out of control, it's kind of good to have something to hold on to. "Just take it easy."

He wants to. He'd _love_ to, but right now, he can barely breathe. There's something tight wrapped around his chest, and it hurts to inhale. He tries to see what it is, but it's hard to bend his neck and he's just really fucking out of it. He knows this. What he doesn't know is why. And that's a scary thought.

"Hey, look at me." Dom's voice breaks through the haze, and he guesses he doesn't do it fast enough, because Dom's hand tightens on his shoulder. "Brian, look at me."

He does, if only because, fuck, Dom's the one telling him to. He raises his head as much as he can and tries to get his eyes to focus on Dom's face. And it's definitely not tears blurring his vision, because he's a grown ass man and he doesn't cry like that, but Dom's face _is_ a little hazy.

He tries to push himself up a little straighter, because he's hoping that'll make it a little easier to breathe, but he gives up and just wraps an arm around his middle. "You drug me again?" he manages.

Dom's face visibly relaxes, and he even smiles a little. "A couple hours ago."

Brian thinks he might remember that, but it's all kind of fuzzy. He could've been dreaming, for all he knows. But at least that explains why his head still feels like it's filled with engine sludge.

"How's the head, by the way?" Dom asks. Christ, Brian doesn't believe in any of that supernatural shit – his life is crazy enough without anything else – but sometimes, he can't help but wonder if Dom's some sort of psychic.

Which means it's pretty much pointless to lie to him, so Brian doesn't bother trying. "Hurts," he says. He's not gonna bitch about it, though, and he even manages a half-assed shrug. "Nothing I can't handle."

"Sure it ain't."

It's hard to tell if the look Dom's giving him is skeptical or if he's actually humoring him, so again, he doesn't bother trying. He doesn't have half a shit to give, and what little he has is quickly taken up with something else.

His eyes happen to wander over to the alarm clock that's sitting on the table by the bed, and he suddenly ratchets up. "Shit," he hisses, and he starts to stand.

He doesn't make it too far. Dom's got one hand on his shoulder, and the other one goes to his hip, and he's pushing him back down to the bed before Brian can even really get his ass off the duvet.

"Park it, Brian," he says firmly. "You don't have anywhere you gotta be."

"No, Dom, I…I have to go." He tries to get up again, but Dom pushes him back down same as before.

"You're not going anywhere."

"I told Harry I'd open for him," he protests. He knows he probably sounds like a brat, but he's suddenly anxious and nervous, and he doesn't know what to do with it.

Dom's still not letting him up, though. "And I told him you couldn't make it, so would you calm your ass down before you pull something? Mia went through a lot of trouble to get you stitched up; don't ruin it."

With his only argument shut down, Brian's kind of lost. He gives a few half-hearted shoves at Dom's hands, looking everywhere but at him, and he realizes he doesn't even know where he is. He doesn't recognize the room. He can figure out that it's in the Toretto house; he's pieced together that much. But it's not Mia's, and it's not the guest room he stayed in the few times he didn't crash on the couch.

There's posters of cars here and there, pictures on the wall, but it's mostly pretty bare. There's a bed, a TV, a dresser, and a closet that he can see, but he can't turn his head all the way around. The blankets still twisted around his waist and legs – and _shit_ where are his jeans? – are plain and blue and tell him _absolutely_ nothing.

"Where am I?" The fact that he has to ask makes him uneasy, and he thinks that maybe that's why he's so fucking nervous all of the sudden.

He tries to tell himself it has nothing to do with the fact that he and Dom are practically breathing the same air, but he's not fool enough to believe it.

"My room," Dom answers like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Brian guesses, now that he thinks about it, it kind of is. This room looks like Dom. _Smells_ like him.

But then he frowns. Dom's room is on the _second_ floor, and even though he thinks he could forget downing a pill and passing out again, he's pretty sure he would remember making the hike up the stairs.

His eyes narrow. "How the hell did I get up here?" He's got his suspicions, but for the sake of his pride, he's really hoping he's wrong.

Dom's smile doesn't exactly put him at ease. "How do you think you got up here?" he says, and there's a glint in his eyes that makes Brian groan and flop back on the bed.

He promptly groans again, but for an entirely different reason.

"You're gonna hurt yourself if you keep doing that," Dom reminds him.

Only if he doesn't die of embarrassment first, Brian thinks. "You carried me up here, didn't you?" he says once his ribs have decided it's okay for his lungs to move again. The bandages wrapped around his chest – that's what they are, he's realized; elastic bandages, around his chest and his shoulders – aren't quite as bad when he's laying back like this, even though the bottom's bunched up where the edge has flipped.

"I couldn't leave you on the couch, could I?"

"I'd've been fine on the couch."

"You're better on the bed, though, aren't you?" It's not really a question; he's just making a point.

Brian actually laughs. "Yeah, wouldn't you like to know?" And even though he's wincing, he's still smiling as he starts to push himself back up.

His smile falls, though, when he sees the look on Dom's face.

He doesn't really get a chance to get a read on it, though. Not before it's gone, and Dom's straightening up. For a second, Brian's getting ready to apologize – he's not actually sure what for, he just thinks it's the right move – but then Dom's got a hand on his back where it doesn't hurt so much, and he's helping him sit the rest of the way up.

_That_ does hurt. That hurts a lot. His back burns, and he remembers those stitches Dom was talking about, and his gut and ribs really aren't happy about repositioning. He tries to move his leg, too, to get it back up on the bed, but – _ow, shit, ow_ – no, that's not happening.

Dom seems to notice, because his brows furrow in that way that would make him look hellishly angry if it weren't for the soft look in his hypnotically dark eyes, and he gives him a hand.

For a second, Brian's whole world goes white. He stops one step short of biting his knuckle, because holy fuck, this hurts more than it should. All he does is turn a little and lay back, but his back's on fire, his knee feels like someone's taking a fucking pipe wrench to it, and the subwoofer's in his head again with the bass turned up too high.

He's pretty sure he's about to be sick.

"No, you're not," Dom says. Brian's almost positive now that he's psychic. "I'm not psychic, Bri. You're saying this shit out loud. "

Fuck, that's embarrassing.

"It's fine."

Brian wants to thank him, but then there's movement again, and he's pretty sure it's better for everyone if he just grits his teeth and closes his eyes until it's over. And when it is, his knee's propped up on a pillow, his head's propped up the same way, and the covers aren't quite over his shoulders, which is good, because if they were any higher, he'd have to push them down, and he doesn't think he has the energy. Vaguely, it occurs to him that Dom just tucked him in. Dominic-fucking-Toretto just tucked him in, and Christ, he should be rolling on the floor right now or having a conniption fit or something, because it's just so _out there_, but he's not. He's savoring it, and it's maybe – _definitely_ – a little – _lot_ – pathetic, but he's too tired and sore and _happy to be home_ that he just doesn't care.

And that's what this is, he's thinking. Home.

He's also thinking it might not be a bad thing if he just doesn't open his eyes. He could sleep again; it's not like he has anywhere better to be. He's off for the rest of the weekend from work, and Dom's taken care of Harry. Fuck, Dom's taken care of everything.

He's taken care of him.

"Go back to sleep, Bri," Dom says. "You're alright." His voice sounds really close, but Brian doesn't feel like checking. He doesn't need to. A hand, big and callused and warm, smoothes his hair back, and that…that's better than the Lortab.

Dom kisses his head, and Brian tries _really_ hard not to think too much about it, because that's just something Dom _does_. He's done it before. He does it to Vince, and Mia, and Jesse, and it doesn't mean what Brian thinks it means. What he wishes it would mean.

Still, though…maybe it's Brian's imagination, or maybe he's already dreaming, but he could swear it feels like Dom lingers for a second. His hand doesn't leave, and it's really fucking distracting the way his thumb's brushing over the sensitive skin behind his ear. He can kind of feel the warmth of his breath, and _shit_, he wants to do something, _anything_, but he's afraid to scare him off. To break the spell.

Not that it matters. It breaks on its own, when Dom backs away, and Brian wants to push himself up and watch him walk around the bed, but he's frankly ecstatic when he manages to pry his eyes open again. If the clock's right, it's almost five in the morning, and even after his marathon nap, he's still worn the fuck out.

From the weary sort of way Dom sinks into the chair that he's pretty sure was _downstairs_ last he checked – maybe Dom carried it up without its permission, too, Brian thinks – he's in about the same boat. Except Brian thinks he probably hasn't been hibernating the last sixteen hours or so like Brian has, so he's probably got it even worse.

He suddenly feels really guilty. The guy takes him in, feeds him, lets him use his shower, patches him up, and then Brian steals his bed. He's not sure what the protocol is for this sort of thing. He wants to point out that it's a huge ass bed, especially by his standards, and that there's got to be enough room for the two of them on it, but he doesn't want to make things weird. After the joke before, he's kind of wondering if there's some sort of line he's not seeing, and he really doesn't want to risk crossing it.

But no. Dom's not like that, he tells himself. Not Dom. He's got Letty, and Brian's not an idiot.

Well, okay, yeah, he is kind of an idiot. He doesn't think he'd be in this mess if he wasn't. But just because he's an idiot doesn't mean he's naïve. That's one thing he doesn't think he's ever been.

_Where is Letty, anyway?_ Now that he thinks about it, he doesn't think he's seen her around. Which is weird, because he doesn't remember a day that went by back when he ran with Toretto that she wasn't there.

"Hey, Dom?" Brian says after a second. He's gonna ask him. His tongue feels like some weird cotton-lead hybrid, though, and he's pretty sure it would take a tire jack to keep his eyes open, so he's thinking he should probably do it fast.

Dom seems to have something else in mind.

"Go back to sleep, Buster."

It's not harsh or anything. More like…a fond monotone. It doesn't leave any room for argument, though. Not that Brian would put up one if there was. His questions'll keep. He's warm and probably a lot more comfortable than he should be, given the circumstances, and he's surrounded by what's definitely nosing the ocean out of first for his all-time favorite smell.

It's entirely possible he's asleep before his eyes finish closing.


	8. Chapter 8

It's light out this time when Brian wakes up. It's coming straight through the window, and Brian knows it's either early in the morning or late in the afternoon. The clock on the table tells him it's the second one. _5:30_. Just about sunset.

He's no stranger to odd hours, being a cop and all, so it really doesn't bother him that much that he's slept all day. His bladder's not as easy going about it, though, and he realizes right about now that he's got to piss like a racehorse.

Luckily, other than his eyeballs floating, he's feeling better. Not great, still, but definitely better. His head's clearer; he thinks it's been a while since his last dose. And even though it means he's more aware of the aches and pains, being able to think straight makes it a lot easier to cope.

It isn't until he pushes himself up – slowly – that he realizes there's something missing. The chair between the bed and window is empty. Dom's gone, and though a tiny bit of him wishes he wasn't, the overwhelming majority's just really relieved he can hobble to the toilet in peace.

Theoretically, anyway.

He's real careful swinging his legs over the side of the bed, but it doesn't hurt as bad as he remembers. There's a brace on his knee that wasn't there before, this big neoprene mother fucker that swallows up his leg from halfway up his thigh to halfway down his calf, and it's keeping it from moving around too much. It's itchy and hot, but he's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

And while he's on the subject of gifts, he's really not sure whose crutches those are leaning against the back of the chair or who left them there. He's pretty sure the cut-off sweats and t-shirt next to them are Dom's, though, and he takes all of it. The crutches are a little low for him, and the first few seconds are awkward and painful – now he's _really_ glad Dom's not here, because he knows he's got to look like an idiot – but he's had a lot more experience with these things than he probably should've. It's slow going, and it ain't exactly comfortable, but he makes it to the adjoining bathroom in one piece.

He's pretty psyched when he doesn't fall over into/onto/anywhere around the toilet while he's in there, and he even manages to pull on the sweats without too much trouble. They go down to his knees, and they're loose enough that they fit around the brace just fine. He's glad they have a drawstring, though.

He washes his hands when he's done and splashes some of the cool water on his face. It feels good; he feels kind of flushed and grimy, and since a shower's a little out of his reach right now, he'll settle for this.

When he looks up and sees himself in the mirror, though, he actually gives the shower thing a second thought. He figures out pretty quick, though, that a shower ain't gonna fix the kind of shit he's looking like. The right side of his face is a bruise, and his eye's a little swollen. His lip's split, too.

And he _really_ needs a shave. And a comb – it looks like a clusterfuck of cowlicks on the top of his head – but he's thinking he's probably not going to find one of those in Dom's bathroom. His toothbrush is there, though, which Brian reminds himself to thank Dom for later, because his mouth tastes like ass. And because he's already being a mooch, he helps himself to some of Dom's spray-on deodorant so that maybe he won't smell too ripe, before easing into a shirt that he's positive _has_ to be Dom's, because no one else in the house would dwarf him like this.

_I look like a twelve-year-old,_ he thinks, frowning at his reflection. _A homeless, hairy twelve-year-old._

The sad thing is, it's actually a definite improvement.

He's already worn out by the time he limps back out into Dom's room, but he takes one look at the bed and heads for the door instead. As great and comfortable as it is, he thinks he might go crazy if he stays in this room too much longer.

He decides to go downstairs, instead. Which, in hindsight, is probably a little ambitious, but he figures what the hell? He makes his way down the hall, says a quick prayer at the top of the stairs, and with the crutches in hand and the rail clutched maybe a little desperately in the other, he starts down.

He makes it all of six steps down.

On the plus side, he's pretty sure his impromptu seat-drop would've scored at _least_ an eight at the Olympics. On the downside, though, _holy shit,_ that hurt. And the crutches are thudding down the stairs like bowling balls, and there's really not much he can do to stop them.

So, he laughs. It hurts like a bitch, and he's pretty sure he just broke his ass bone on the stairs, but that was a pretty epic wipeout, and his mom always said if you couldn't laugh at yourself, who could you laugh at?

Unfortunately, Dom doesn't think so. At least, he doesn't seem to when he comes tearing in out of the kitchen like a bull on a rampage. Brian thinks that if he squints, he might be able to see smoke coming out of his nose.

Before he can give it a shot, though, Dom's eyes lock on him, and he sees a flash of something that looks an awful lot like worry. "Jesus, Brian." And then Dom's running up the stairs, and Brian's not laughing quite so much anymore. He's still smiling, because he must look ridiculous right now, and that's kind of funny.

It's just _less_ funny, because Dom actually seems worried. He's kneeling down on the stairs just in front of Brian, and looking him over like a crashed car he's checking for damage.

He must decide that Brian's okay or something, because Brian can almost _hear_ the gears shifting from worried to _really_ pissed off.

"What the hell were you doing, Brian?"

Brian's smile falls. "I was just hungry," he says. Which is true. Now that the Lortab's not got him all dizzy and motion sick, his stomach's deciding to remind him that he has the metabolism of an Olympic runner, and he hasn't eaten in over a day. He's fucking _starving_.

"And you couldn't wait two minutes for me to get back up there?"

That should piss him off, what Dom's implying there. Like he can't even get up and make his own damn sandwich. And it does, kind of. But getting pissed takes a lot of energy, and Dom's just got this whole over-protective thing going. He means well.

Even if he is being an ass about it.

So, he shrugs, because that seems like a happy medium between rolling over for Dom – and there's _that_ visual – and going off on him. He pointedly ignores the way the stairs dig into his back when he does.

"I figured that was what the crutches were for," he tells him.

"Don't get smart. What were you thinking? You could've hurt yourself."

Okay, that one actually stings a little. "I'm jacked up, not geriatric," he retorts. "I'm not gonna break a hip or something falling down the stairs." Although, the position _is_ starting to hurt, and he's pretty sure this is an argument they can have somewhere more comfortable, so he starts to push himself up.

"Now where're you going?" Dom snaps.

"Out to my damn car if you don't lay off." And if he sounds a little pissy, it isn't his fault. He's trying to pull himself up with the stair rail, and it ain't exactly easy going.

"You're not going anywhere." Dom says it like it's fact. Brian figures it might as well be; if Dom wants to keep him here, he figures there isn't a whole hell of a lot he can do to stop him. He could make a break for it, he guesses, but there's no way in hell that ends well.

Besides, he doesn't want to leave. He just wants dinner. And a couch. A couch would be good, too.

"What about the living room?" he asks. It's half challenge, half olive branch, and it seems to do the trick, cooling Dom's jets a little.

Dom arches an eyebrow. His jaw's still kind of tight, his shoulders are still kind of tense, but the overall expression's a little less 'I'm going to beat your stupid ass upside the head with one of those crutches' and a little more 'why do I put up with your shit?'

But in a fond way.

"You got a problem with my room all of the sudden?" he asks, and when he hooks a thumb through his belt loop and leans against the wall, Brian knows he's in the clear. When Dom's about to put a hurting on someone, he tends to keep both hands free. Brian thinks it's more efficient that way.

Now that he knows it's not about to be a pissing match, he doesn't feel too bad about sinking back down onto the stairs. He wants to pretend he made it farther than he did, but it's really not that long of a trip to plant his ass back where it was. "Nah, I was just getting kinda stir crazy's all."

"Just straight-up crazy's more like it," Dom mutters.

Brian grins, shrugs, and doesn't bother denying it.

Dom rolls his eyes, but Brian sees his lips twitch and knows that victory is his. "Alright, Buster. Dinner and a stroll. Anything else you need?"

"A hand'd be good."

"Never would've pegged you for the needy type, O'Connor," Dom says, and now he's full on smirking.

Brian just sticks out a hand. "Asshole." But he's laughing when Dom hauls him up, even though it hurts like a bitch. "Pass me my crutches?"

"Leave 'em," Dom says. "I'm your crutch."

Sometimes, Brian wonders if Dom says this shit on purpose, or if he actually has no idea what kind of effect he has on people. On _him_.

It's true, though. Dom's his own personal human crutch, except instead of cold metal and duct-taped rags under his arms, he's got a warm arm around his waist and a steadying hand on his chest. He tries not to lean on him too much – Dom might've been kidding when he called him needy, but now it's a matter of pride – but it's like Dom's anticipating the bad steps, because his arm tightens around Brian's waist every time Brian's knee starts to shake.

Brian's happy as a pig in shit when they make it to the couch, and if it wasn't for Dom and his fucking steel clamp grip, he probably would've just said 'to hell with it' and flopped onto the thing like a limp noodle. As it is, he goes for a little more gradual descent, settling comfortably on the middle cushion of the couch while Dom clears off a spot on the table and drops a pillow on it.

"Prop your leg up on that, princess," he says, and Brian's grateful that he doesn't try to do it for him. That's just Dom: he's got just the right amount of presence. He's there, but he's not overbearing, not stifling. He knows when to give people their space, and Brian's just glad to be able to do _something_ for himself.

While he's making himself comfortable, Dom starts out of the room again, only to pause in the doorway.

"What do you want on your sandwich?" he says. "And before you ask, we're fresh out of tuna."

Brian chuckles, reaching carefully for the remote on the arm of the chair. "I'll have whatever you're having." He's not picky. Growing up like he did, any food he could get was his favorite food; 'picky' wasn't even a word in his vocabulary.

With Dom off doing his thing in the kitchen – Brian's thinking about calling Dom out for being all domestic, but he thinks he likes living too much – Brian keeps himself busy surfing the channels.

He casts a sour glance down at the brace on his leg. Something tells him this is the only kind of surfing he's gonna be doing for a while. Which sucks, because that's pretty much his only form of stress relief that doesn't involve nitrous oxide or a hangover.

To hell with that. He's curious, and he's already bored, so he leans forward kind of tenderly, because _fuck_ his ribs still feel like they're broken even though he knows they're not, and he goes for the first Velcro strap on the brace. He figures he'll just take the thing off, see if he can put any weight on it. He was walking around alright before, anyway. It's probably just a sprain.

"You better leave that shit alone."

Brian freezes. Caught in the act. _Damn_. He tries to shrug it off, though, smoothing over the Velcro and leaning back on the couch in a way that he hopes doesn't broadcast just how much he's hurting. It's not unbearable, but he's thinking it's probably smart if he keeps moving to a minimum.

Judging by the look Dom sends his way, he isn't being very convincing.

He decides to distract him. "Where'd you get this thing, anyway?" he asks, nodding to the brace. "Thing's kinda legit." It doesn't look like some out-of-the-box pharmacy brace.

Dom doesn't look like he buys it, but he's nice enough to take the bait, anyway. "Leon tore his ACL in a pick-up game a couple years ago, and you know Mia doesn't throw anything out."

Yeah, Brian knows. He's _seen_ the shed out back.

"Guess that's where the crutches came from, too?"

"Damn, you must be a detective or something."

For a second, Brian thinks it's a dig, and he's just about to fire off a retort when Dom flashed Brian a smirk. He's just playing, Brian realizes, and shit, if he can play about Brian being a cop, then maybe they're doing better than he thought.

He tries not to smile too wide, but he's not sure he manages. It's actually kind of a miracle that his split lip doesn't start bleeding again.

It doesn't help when he looks at the plates Dom's holding as he sinks down onto the couch to Brian's right. He's made two kickass sandwiches, and there's chips, too. But the thing that _really_ gets him grinning like a damn fool?

One of them's got no crust.

Which is kind of funny, because that's _not_ the one Dom puts in his lap.

"Nah, that's messed up."

Dom glances over at him, and it's kind of amazing that someone as hard as him can actually pull off the innocent look. "You say something?"

"Don't play, man," Brian says. "You _know_ you made that shit for me."

"What? You think just 'cause it don't got crust on it that I made it special for you?"

Brian's answer is a pointed look. That's sweet and shit, but Dom needs to stop playing; he's hungry as hell, and patience isn't his strongest virtue by a mile.

Luckily, Dom doesn't hold out on him long. "Yeah, alright. Take your damn sandwich." Brian takes the one he's holding, and just as quick almost drops it when Dom's hand brushes his thigh to take his plate back. This one, he doesn't think Dom notices, and he promptly crams the sandwich in his mouth. Focus on something else, he thinks. Focus on _anything_ else. Anything that's not the dip of the couch from Dom's weight beside him, or the way their knees are touching, or the way the only thing he can smell besides this sandwich is fucking_ Dom_.

In hindsight, that's a bad combination of words.

It takes him a few seconds – and a few more mouthfuls – to realize Dom's staring at him.

He swallows the bite he's got and washes it down with the water Dom brought in for him. He knows better than to ask for a beer, after the meds he's been taking. "What?" he asks.

Dom's studying him, and he's got that wrinkle in his brow that tells Brian he's thinking hard about something. "You actually tasting any of that?"

Brian frowns for a second, confused, until Dom flicks his eyes illustratively down towards his sandwich. Brian follows it and realizes the thing's half gone. Dom's, by comparison, is only missing a couple bites.

He isn't self-conscious or anything – a guy's gotta eat, right? – but he does shrug kind of sheepishly. "I eat fast."

"No shit."

"Sorry?" That's kind of becoming his fall-back response, and maybe that's a problem, but he figures most of the time, it's probably right. It's not like he doesn't have plenty to be sorry for.

This time, though, Dom shakes his head. "Don't be sorry," he says. "Just don't choke. And make sure you're drinking that water. Mia said to get another bottle in you before your next dose of drugs."

"Nah, I ain't taking that stuff anymore," Brian says around another mouthful of sandwich. "Screws with my head."

"Your head's already screwed."

_No thanks to you, _Brian thinks. "I'll stick to aspirin. I'll be good." And coherent, which is definitely a plus. It's nice being able to think. "Where _is_ Mia, by the way?" It's past six, now, and he hasn't seen her.

For a second, he could swear he sees Dom wince. It's gone in a flash, though, and he could have imagined it for all he knows. He knows he's not imagining the big gulp of beer he takes, though, before saying, "She's on a date."

And there it is. Simple. To the point. No bullshit. He's not even staring at Brian anymore, although Brian doesn't miss the glances he's shooting his way. He'll give him props, though; he's trying not to nose in. He's just trying to get a read, Brian thinks. Just gauging his reaction to the news.

Brian would be lying if he said he doesn't frown a little, but it's for a whole different reason than he thinks Dom's expecting. "You like the guy?" he asks.

Dom raises an eyebrow. Seems Brian was right; he wasn't expecting this. "He's a doctor."

"That's not what I asked." Brian pops a chip into his mouth. "I asked if you like him."

"He's dating my sister."

Brian smiles. "I'll take that as a 'no,' then," he says.

"I don't know." Dom's kind of got this odd look on his face. It's kind of a smile, and kind of serious and deep and something else Brian can't put his finger on. "I liked you alright."

It's the way he says it that has Brian swallowing thickly, and he barely manages to conceal a cough behind a swig of water. _Jesus_, he thinks. This's got to be some form of cruel and unusual punishment, because if Dom keeps dropping lines like that, he's either gonna lose his mind or do something he'll regret. Assuming he lives long enough to regret it.

He takes another bite of his sandwich.


	9. Chapter 9

"Remember that conversation we were gonna have?"

It's the first thing either of them has said in the past twenty minutes or so. They've both finished their sandwiches by now, and had just kind of been enjoying each other's presence. At least, Brian had been enjoying Dom's. He could feel a food coma in the works, which was sad, 'cause all he's had is a sandwich and chips with an aspirin chaser, but he's not gonna complain with that comfortable pre-food-coma haze, or the just all around comfortable atmosphere.

Just like that, though, it's gone.

Brian looks over to see Dom watching him. He's turned around, leaning back casually between the arm and the back of the chair, but he's got this dead even stare that screws "casual" all to hell.

It's all Brian can do not to squirm on the spot. He's always been good at staying cool under pressure, but Dom's a whole different kind of pressure than he's used to, and fuck if he can't _feel_ Dom's eyes on him, all dark and intense and smoldering like coals. Which he thinks is a pretty good metaphor for a guy that barely graduated high school, because just like coal, Dominic Toretto burns a hell of a lot hotter than any fire he knows of.

"So, what the hell happened, Brian?"

Brian knows, he _knows_, he can't put this off anymore, but Christ, he wants to. Because he's just started to let himself enjoy this, just started to let himself think that maybe he can have this – this family, this _home_ – and he's really not sure how Dom's gonna take hearing what he has to tell him.

He's never been one to run away from his problems, though. Never been one to back down from something he's got to do, so he just takes a deep breath, grits his teeth, and gets ready to bite the bullet.

"I can't tell you."

It's weird, but Dom doesn't even look surprised. He doesn't look _happy_, but he doesn't look surprised, either. "You can't tell me, or you don't want to tell me?"

"I _can't_," Brian says. "Shit, man, I'm not trying to keep anything from you."

"Then don't." Dom says it like it's just that simple. Like it's black and white. Like it's his fucking _choice_.

Brian sighs, running an irate hand through his hair. He tries not to wince when his fingers brush the sore spot on the back of his head, but honestly, he's kind of glad for the momentary distraction. Pain's better than the mounting tension he feels in his chest. He tells himself he's not scared, because he doesn't _do_ scared.

But damned if it doesn't feel like he's lying.

"It's not that easy, Dom."

"It _is_ that easy, Brian," Dom retorts. His voice is a little more forceful this time, and even though he's not shouting, Brian can feel it heading that direction. That's Dom's 'I know best; you should do what I say' voice, which, if experience is anything to go by, is pretty much _always_ quickly followed by 'I know best; you _will_ do what I say, whether I have to shout at you or physically twist your arm until you do.'

Brian opens his mouth to reply, hoping to kind of nip this thing in the bud, but he can't even get a word out.

"You're a part of this family, Bri. Maybe you don't know what that means just yet, but around here, we take care of our family." He leans forward, and Brian forces himself to stay put. "So tell me how the hell I'm supposed to take care of you if I don't even know what kind of shit you're in?"

There it is. His voice raises at the end, and Brian can't help it. He's backed into a corner, nowhere to go, and he's just so _fucked_ there aren't words. "I'm not asking you to take care of me, Dom!" he snaps, and even though he knows it was a dumb move, it feels good to shout, to let go.

It's just…he's always got to play it cool. He's always got to smile and deal with the shit they give him back at the station, because he's just lucky he got to keep his badge, and because they're always real happy to remind him of that when he steps a toe out of line. He's always got to act like he doesn't mind getting the shit kicked out of him, like it's just another day in the job when six guys roll up on him and beat the ever loving hell out of him, because sometimes, it is. He's always got to act like shit just rolls off him, because that's just the way he was raised; it's fucking automatic, and so far, no one's ever been able to call him on his bullshit.

Until Dom came around and turned the whole damn world on its head.

"You don't have to!" Dom's voice is like fucking thunder, deep and rumbling and damn near a force of nature of its own. But there's always this eerie quiet after, and Brian can practically _see_ Dom reigning himself back in. Shifting gears. He runs his hand over his smooth head, and when he speaks again, his voice is that measured calm that's somehow even worse than the shouting. "Jesus, Brian, don't you get it? I'm trying to help you. To _protect_ you."

Brian sighs. It's not fair; Dom shouldn't be able to make him feel guilty like this. Shouldn't be able to make him feel bad for trying to protect them. "I'm trying to protect you, too," he says, and God, when did this all get so messed up? "All of you."

"From what?"

"That's what I can't tell you, Dom." _Please_, he thinks. _Please, just understand. Just try to understand_.

But Dom's stubborn. "_Why_?" he says, and Brian can't help wondering if he's just so set on this, or if he genuinely doesn't believe there's any problem he can't solve for someone. He at least seems determined to try.

Part of Brian wishes he could. He wishes he could tell Dom about this job, about this case, about Kevin and his gang of Asian assholes. It reasons that it's kind of Dom's problem, anyway, the way they're trying to move in on Dom's territory.

That part gets drowned out, though, by all the rest, because in his head, Brian knows he's got to keep them separate. He can't let Dom get in trouble again; he barely kept out of it last time, and he knows that Dom meant it when he said he'd die before he went back to prison, and that thought alone is worse than any beating the Little Saigons can dish out. Besides, his business is his business. He chooses to be a cop; he doesn't need to be dragging Dom and the gang into it.

"Dom, man…I know I don't deserve to ask this, but I just—I need you to trust me on this. What I'm doing, I'm doing to keep you guys safe. Because I _do_ know what it means, and I can't let you guys get involved."

The look on Dom's face is this hard mix of frustrated and pained, and it hits Brian straight in the chest. But there's this dawning there, too, finally. This understanding. "You're undercover again, aren't you?"

It's not really a question, and Brian would wonder how he figured that out just from what he's told him, except he's learned that Dom just _knows_. And it's kind of a relief, but at the same time, it's kind of unnerving, because if he can figure this out, Brian's worried he can figure out the rest.

"Yeah." He isn't gonna lie; there's no reason to. "I mean, it's—it's different than it was. Before." The 'with you' goes unspoken for both of them, and Brian's grateful for that.

"So you got this beat up working a case?" It's back again. That cold, concealed fury. Brian can almost see it building in the set of his jaws, in the hard line of his broad shoulders, in the glint in his eyes. "Don't you cops get backup or something?"

Brian's no Dom, but he's pretty smart himself; he can see where this is going. "It wasn't like that, man," he says. "I'm not gonna say it was a one-time thing, 'cause shit happens, but this one was my bad. I went looking for a fight, and I got one."

Dom seems to weigh that. "They know you're a cop, now?" he asks after a second.

"They know I'm not one." And he knows it's probably bad timing, but he can't help smiling a little bit at that. It may have gone a little sideways – okay, a _lot_ sideways – but his plan worked. "Ain't no cop gonna take on half a dozen guys without backup."

"'Cause that'd just be stupid," Dom says.

Brian chuckles. "Yeah."

"And I'm just supposed to be okay with this?" Seems Dom's still not ready to let it go. "I'm just supposed to be okay with some thugs beating the hell out of you? With you showing up here black and blue and bleeding?"

"In my defense, you should've seen the other guys." He's pretty sure that cock Yeung isn't gonna be strutting anytime soon, either. Not after the way his feathers got ruffled.

"You tell me who they are, I'd be happy to pay 'em a visit."

Something tells Brian he'd do a little more than ruffle their feathers.

"Listen, Dom," he says. "I'll tell you what I can, when I can. I ain't asking you to be okay with it, but that's the best I can do. If it's any better, I won't come around here when I'm—"

Dom cuts him off. "Let's get something straight, O'Connor. This ever happens again, this damn well better be the first place you come that's not a hospital. You understand?"

It ain't exactly sweet, but something about that makes Brian's smile come back. His chest feels warm, and his stomach kind of fluttery, because maybe it's just wishful thinking, but Dom actually sounds…protective. Almost _possessive,_ even, and the way he's looking at Brian kind of makes him think….

_Nah._

"Yeah." He nods a little, and he's pretty sure he's smiling like an idiot, but he doesn't care. Dom's not pissed anymore, and he's not grilling him, and Brian's still here, so he's cautiously optimistic that this might not all go to hell like he thought. "Yeah, I understand."

"Good." A little bit of the tension's starting to ease out of Dom's shoulders, and that vein on his forehead's starting to ease on up a little. "And for the record, I find you sleeping in your car outside again, I'm dragging your ass inside by that pretty blond hair of yours. It don't matter what time it is: you call, you knock, you throw stones at the fucking window if you got to. There's always a bed here for you."

Well, shit. If he didn't feel all warm and fuzzy before, he does now. It's amazing, he thinks, how Dom can make the threat of violence sound affectionate.

"So, we're good then?" He's still a little hesitant to ask, but he thinks, maybe….

"Yeah," Dom says, and Brian nearly collapses in relief right then and there. Seriously, this shit's bad for his heart. "I don't like it, but so long as you're straight with me, so long as you come to me, and so long as you don't put the others at risk, we're good."

That's a lot to ask, Brian thinks. It's a lot of trust, too, though, that Dom's putting in him, and he's had worse deals. Fuck, for the chance to be a part of this again, to stick around here and even get to keep coming back, that's nothing.

Although, "You said the others. What about you?" If it was anyone one else, Brian probably would've just written it off as meaningless, but Dom's pretty economic with his words: there's always meaning to every one of them he says.

Dom just shrugs, and Brian knows he's off the hook when Dom leans back again. "You need me, you call me. I'll be there, risk or not." And as he says it, there's something in his eyes that catches Brian's interest.

Call it a hunch; he's pretty sure it's wrong, but he wouldn't be a detective or if he didn't check it out. "'Cause I'm family, huh?" he says. He's testing the waters a little.

"Something like that."

Maybe he could've imagined the Look, but there's no way he's imagining Dom averting his eyes. He plays it like he's just watching the TV again, but like hell that B-movie shitfest on television is worth all the attention Dom's suddenly devoting to it.

Like he said, it's just a hunch, but the last conversation going his way's kind of made him bold. As if he knew how to play it safe in the first place.

There's something that's been bugging him since that morning. Something he wanted to ask, but didn't get the chance to. And since they're being all open, he figures this is as good a chance as any.

"Hey, so where's Letty anyway?" He gives himself a mental clap on the back when it comes out smooth and casual. The iceman's back, and Brian thinks it's about damn time. "I haven't seen her. I thought she hung here."

The smile that pulls at Dom's lips is just short of wry, and Brian's not sure if he should be worried or not when Dom takes a pull from his corona. "You really haven't been around here for a while, have you?" he says.

"Did something happen?" For a single, gut-turning second, he thinks Letty might've gotten hurt. Or worse.

But then Dom glances over at him, sees him, and the smile turns into a real one. He's just short of laughing, and if it's at Brian's expense, well then he thinks he can live with that. "Chill, Buster. Those baby blues of yours get any wider, they're gonna roll right out of your skull."

Brian's pretty sure that'll be a lot funnier when his gut unclenches. In the meantime, "So, everything's copacetic, then?"

"You actually use that word, huh?"

"Yeah. What about it?"

Dom shakes his head, still smiling, and takes another swig of beer. "I was kind of hoping that was part of your cover."

"It's a cool word," Brian protests. "And you're changing the subject."

"It ain't much of a subject."

And that's when it dawns on Brian. Honestly, he thinks he should be ashamed he didn't realize it sooner. "You broke up?" he says, and this time, it's him who's not really asking the question. The way Dom kind of avoids the subject, it's obvious. At the same time, though, he doesn't seem too sore about it. He isn't loose-lipped, but his stance is relaxed enough – Brian's getting good at reading his stances; he probably pays a little too much attention – that Brian gets the impression there's no bad blood. He doesn't think Dom'll be too touchy if he pushes a little more. "How'd it happen? I thought you two were—"

"You say 'copacetic,' I'm hiding the crutches and stranding your ass on the couch."

"I wasn't gonna. And you're changing the subject again."

"Ain't my fault your ADD's kicking in."

Brian doesn't point out that Dom's the one that interrupted him. He already thinks he might be pouting a little, and he would really prefer Dom not think he's a twelve-year-old. He already looks like one; Dom's clothes are even bigger on him than his usual baggy shirts. He feels like a Thrift Store brat all over again.

The smell's definitely better this time around, though.

And okay, maybe Dom had something with the ADD thing, after all.

"Seriously, though. Why'd you two break it off? If you don't mind telling."

Dom shrugs again. "It ain't all that much to tell. I woke up and realized I wasn't hers anymore; she woke up and realized the same thing."

Just like everything else, he makes it sound so cut and dry simple. Although, this time around, it might've been. He and Letty are both pretty cut and dry people.

"You two are still good, though, right?" It's kind of hard to imagine the team without Letty on it, and even if they aren't together, he has a hard time believing Dom would let go of one of his own like that.

Dom's nod confirms it. "Yeah, she still comes by. Think she's started circling Leon."

"Good for him." Brian may not know the group like Dom does, but he's not blind. Letty may have just started circling Leon, but Leon's been orbiting her as long as he's known him.

Happy as he is for Leon, though, he's got to admit that the giddy sort of feeling in his chest isn't strictly innocent. Letty's not with Dom anymore; that throws a wrench in pretty much every argument he's made with himself. Every time he's brushed off a look or a comment that seemed like Dom might…_fuck_.

He swallows thickly. Licks his lips. He started this; he might as well see it through to the end. "What about you?" he says, and it only sounds a little shaky to his own ears. "You circling anybody?"

It's a fucking miracle his heart doesn't stop beating when he sees the way Dom looks at him. His smile's gone, and his eyes are bearing down on Brian something fierce, and _Christ_, it's so intense.

"I think you know the answer to that."

He's definitely gonna have a heart attack, he thinks. Twenty two years old, and he's gonna stroke out right then and there, because his heart's pounding like it's nitrous-injected, and his mouth is drier than a Barstow summer.

And yet….

Everyone says he's a crazy ass mother fucker, and they're right. He ain't all fearless, but he's straight reckless; always has been, always will be.

Which is probably why he surges forward and crushes his lips to Dom's.

At first, Dom doesn't react, and Brian half expects a fist to connect any second. That'll be okay, he thinks; death by Dominic Toretto's still a better way to go than a heart attack. At least he'll die happy. No regrets.

Just when he's about to start preparing his last words, though, he feels a hand curl in his hair. Another closes over his hip, and he feels warm, calloused skin against his own where his shirt – _Dom's_ shirt – rode up. The heat goes straight to the pit of his stomach, twisting his stomach into just the right kind of knots.

Holy fuck.

He's kissing Dominic Toretto.

And Dominic Toretto's kissing him back.

He's never felt anything like it. The position's awkward, and his ribs are pitching fits, but the feel of Dom's lips on his, his hands on him, it drowns it out. It's firm and possessive and heated and _everything_ Brian thought it should be and so much more. He can taste the lime and corona on his tongue, but underneath it, there's that same hint of something that's just _Dom._

They don't break until their need for air makes them, and even then, Brian's not sure he would've. As it is, he leans in for another, because _fuck_, that's more addictive than cigarettes, but Dom pulls back. Not far; Brian can still taste him, but it's not enough. He tries again, but Dom does the same damn thing.

He's getting ready to protest, because really, what the hell, but then Dom's lip press to the side of his neck, and the words die on his lips along with any trace of coherent thought. Dom's pulling lightly on his hair, coaxing his head to the side, and he lets him, because he's way too focused on the pressure of lips and teeth against his skin, just barely hard enough to hurt. It's good. Great. There'll be marks there in the morning, but he doesn't give a shit. He actually kind of likes the idea.

He's thinking about returning the favor, actually. He starts to, turning at the hips for a better angle, and—

_Fuck_.

He hisses, and he doesn't mean to flinch, but he does, because he tweaked something in his side just right, and _that_ is not the good kind of hurt. For a stupid second, he kind of hopes Dom doesn't notice.

Dom stops still, leaning back and half-pushing, half-guiding Brian back a little bit, so that there's a little more space between them, enough to see each others' faces. And Dom's looking at him with furrowed brows, worried eyes, and a frown, and Brian just _knows_ he ruined it.

"You okay?" Dom says. His voice is low and husky, and Brian can at least take some pleasure in knowing that he's not the only one that's feeling this. And that he's not the only one out of breath.

He nods as much as he can with Dom's fingers still carded through his hair, and he grins. "Copacetic."

Dom rewards his smart mouth with a light tug of his hair. "Smartass."

"At least you know what you're getting into." Because he doesn't think he's being optimistic in thinking that this _is_ something. The way Dom's been acting, and just the way Dom _is_…he doesn't seem like the type to do something like this lightly. Besides, there's something in his eyes other than worry, and Brian's not trying to get ahead of himself, but it looks an awful lot like the l-word.

He only knows because he probably looks about the same.

He leans forward for another kiss, only Dom's handhold in his hair is turning out to be a double-edged sword, because he holds him back. He's smiling, though, an amused, relaxed sort of smile that's toeing a line between goofy and sexy that by all rights shouldn't exist in this world.

"Sorry, Bri, but neither of are getting into anything tonight," he says.

"I'm fine." He refuses to acknowledge how whiny that sounds.

Dom just keeps smiling, and really, it's just not fair. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners – it's playing dirty, damn it. "That's funny. 'Cause I was just thinking there's probably not a part of you that doesn't hurt."

Brian's eyebrow ticks mischievously. "I can think of a few places."

"I bet you can," Dom says. His eyes are dancing. "But the answer's still 'no.' Not until you're back in racing shape. This," he gestures between them, "this'll keep."

There's a meaning in there that's more than the obvious. It'll keep; it'll last. "I thought you said you live life a quarter-mile at a time."

"Not this." He leans in and gives Brian a kiss that's too chaste and too brief, and yet still somehow one of the best kisses Brian's ever had for nothing but the affection behind it, and then presses another to his head. "This is for the long haul."

Brian's 150% sure he's grinning like an idiot, now, and he doesn't even mind that much when Dom slips out from under him. He watches him go, just kind of content to watch the movement of his muscles through the thin fabric of his t-shirt as he grabs up a quilt off the back of the chair and flicks off the light.

When Dom sits back down in the same spot, Brian starts to ask him what he's doing, except Dom's already hooking an arm around his waist and pulling him – gently – back against him. Brian goes without a fight, too, carefully shifting his bad leg over to rest on the arm of the couch. Dom's chest is warm and solid behind his back; his arm, once he finishes throwing the blanket out over Brian's legs, a comfortable weight around his waist.

Dom's got the remote in his other hand, but Brian's only half paying attention to the changing channels. His adrenaline's already dying down, and the impending-food-coma's back with a vengeance, and the steady pulse of Dom's heartbeat reverberating in Brian's own chest is kind of hypnotic. The patterns his fingers are tracing on his hip are even worse.

The VCR under the TV reads seven o'clock, and Brian isn't sure he's ready to sleep yet. "So," he starts, and he's surprised at how heavy his tongue is already, but he doesn't let it stop him, "would that day at the beach count as our first date?"

Brian feels as much as hears the low rumble of Dom's chuckle. "Not a chance," he says. Brian wonders if he's lowering his voice for Brian's benefit, or if it's just an unconscious thing, but it feels oddly more…intimate.

He says while lying on the guy on the couch, wearing his clothes and deodorant.

"First date, I'm taking you somewhere nicer than that shrimp shack," he muses. Brian thinks about teasing him – who knew Dominic Toretto was a romantic? – but he feels Dom's chest rise with a breath to continue speaking. "And you ain't driving."

They'll just have to see about that. Maybe he'll race him for it.

"Besides," Dom says after a little while, and even though he's almost dozed off, Brian doesn't have to look up to know he's smiling, "if it was a date, you'd have let me buy your damn shrimp."

He'll let Dom have that one. Whatever helps him sleep at night.

Brian, for his part, doesn't need any help.


	10. Chapter 10

Brian sleeps better that night than he thinks he ever has, and when he wakes up, he feels…good. And that's pretty damn incredible, considering. But he does. He's warm, and he likes to be warm – the only places cold he's ever been are school, the precinct, and juvie, and not a one of them really agreed with him – and he's sore, but being sore is different than being in pain, and this isn't too bad. He can handle this.

Light's just starting to come through the window. He's not turned that way, but he can tell, because there are lines of pale light on the wall. It's hard to tell exactly what time it is, though. If it's past seven, he figures he'll get up. He's been sleeping _way_ too much lately.

As it turns out, it doesn't really matter what time it is. As he's rolling over to get a look at the clock, he notices something heavy around his waist that is definitely _not_ a blanket, and—

"Shit!" He doesn't even bother sitting up, just kind of does a barrel roll over the side of the bed. Somehow, he manages to land on his feet, and he thinks he must be healing up, because his knee doesn't buckle, but he's really too busy freaking out to give that development the attention it deserves.

It takes him a good ten, fifteen seconds to come off his start enough to notice that, from his spot on the bed Brian just gracelessly exited, Dom is looking at him with a raised eyebrow and an expression of mild amusement.

"Guess you're feeling better," he says, mirroring Brian's earlier, panic-stifled thoughts. His voice is colored with that same amusement dancing in his eyes, and husky with sleep that it looks like he still hasn't shaken off all the way.

For a second, Brian's confused. He blames it on the minor heart attack, though. The fact that Dom's lying in bed without a shirt – he can't tell if there's anything more than that missing because of the blankets around his hips, which is kind of disappointing, but also probably kind of a good thing, because these sweatpants aren't _that_ loose – really isn't helping.

Finally, though, his brain stop stalling out, and last night starts coming back to him. The talking, the kissing, the falling asleep on the couch….

There's a horrifying moment where he thinks Dom might've carried him upstairs again, but he's pretty sure he remembers Dom waking him up so he could drag his own ass up the stairs. He's also pretty sure he remembers hearing Mia come in, and—fuck.

"Mia saw us, didn't she?"

Dom kind of sobers. "Yeah," he says. "Is that a problem?"

Brian knows Dom well enough to know that's as much a question as a challenge. A test. And that should piss him off, because he's so damn tired of being tested at every turn, and he doesn't need it from Dom, too.

Except he can kind of understand it here. Last night, they didn't exactly set the parameters of their…whatever this is, and neither of them really knows where the other stands on it being public knowledge.

But Brian thinks he can guess. Dom doesn't do secrets, not from his family, and that's not something Dom will yield on. Brian would never ask him to.

So, he shakes his head. "No." It comes out a little like a cough or a gasp, because he's strangely winded, so he takes a breath and tries again. "No, it's all good." And it really is. At least, he thinks it is. Dom wouldn't be in this good a mood if Mia was upset about it, and if she's moved on, then Brian doesn't think he should feel guilty for doing the same.

And that—that decision right there…it feels like it takes a hundred pounds off his shoulders.

His chest suddenly feels like it's about to burst, but in the good way, and he knows he's grinning, because he's doing it so hard his cheeks hurt. God, this feels good. It's like…it's like he can breathe again. The guilt that's been weighing him down so heavy this last month and a half, even if it's not all the way gone just yet, it's a hell of a lot lighter, and something else has taken its place.

Him and Dom. They haven't put a name to it yet, and Brian's pretty okay with that right now, because he doesn't give two shits about the name. It's him and Dom. He doesn't even know how long he's wanted this; it just kind of snuck up on him. But he's got it, and _God_ it feels good.

"Jesus, you're like a light switch." Dom's voice breaks through highway of thoughts whipping through his head, and Brian notices that amused little glint is back in his eyes, along with this…_fondness_ that makes Brian feel like…like _he's_ something valuable. Not what he can provide, not what he can do, but just _him_.

That thought kind of blows his mind.

With the junk heap that's left behind in the wreckage – he smiles wider, because it reminds him of the look on Dom's face when he showed up with that piece of shit to settle his debt, and because it reminds him that Mia was right, because Dom really did own him from that day on, as much as anyone ever could – he manages to realize that he's still standing there by the bed, and in nothing but Dom's cut-off sweats and some bandages.

Dom seems to notice, too, because his eyes darken a little with something that's not quite as innocent as fondness or amusement. Brian doesn't miss the way they flick down, either, or the way his eyebrow arches a little higher.

Like Brian said: the sweats aren't _that_ loose.

"So," Dom starts, and his voice is still low and husky and…and…_damn_, "you plannin' on coming back to bed, or are you just gonna stand there grinning like you won the lottery?"

There's an opening for a really cheesy line there, Brian knows there is, but it seems to him like the time it would take him to say it is time better spent climbing back in bed. And he sure has hell won't say it when he's back _in_ bed, because his mouth is immediately preoccupied. He's half on the bed, half on Dom, and damn it's nice not to worry about putting his weight on someone he's kissing when he's on top, because he knows Dom can take it.

Not that he'd have to worry about it long, anyway. He feels Dom's arms snake around behind his back, and the next thing he knows, Dom's rolling them over so that he's on his back, and Dom's leaning over him, one hand braced on the bed by Brian's shoulder, and the other curled in Brian's hair.

Any thoughts he had this last month of just cutting it all off are immediately tossed the hell out. Granted, he never really seriously considered it. He's always had a thing with his hair – he won't call it petting, but that's only because he doesn't like the word.

Dom's obviously got his number on it, because he's got his fingers running through the short hairs at the top of Brian's neck, and Jesus, that's _almost_ as good as what he's doing with his mouth. He always kind of pegged Dom for a hard kisser – he's really not sure when he thought about that, but he guesses it goes without saying that he did – but he'd pegged him wrong. There's a difference between hard and heated, and Dom's teeth graze his lip, but not enough to hurt, and his tongue pushes inside, but it isn't forced. It's…passionate. Dom's passionate, and if Brian was able to string a coherent thought together, he'd tack that onto the list of things he loves about him.

But he can't. Thinking's not really his strong suit when it comes to Dom, especially not with Dom kissing him like this. And Brian gives as good as he gets, until they're both breathing hard.

Their breathing's not the only thing.

Brian's only vaguely aware that he's got his good leg hooked around Dom's waist, but the fact of the matter is he fucks like he fights.

"Fucking monkey," he hears Dom growl against his ear, and the sound goes straight to the pit of his gut, and he thinks he shivers, but he can't tell. Dom's got his mouth on the spot between his shoulder and his neck, where the skin is still tender from the night before. If he didn't have a mark before, he definitely has one, now.

But then it's gone, and Dom's looking down at him, and _fuck_, Brian thinks, because Dom's doing it again. The dude's gonna make him crazy, working him up like this and then leaving him high and dry. There should be some sort of rule against that.

"Come to the garage with me today," Dom says.

Brian looks at him like he's crazy. "You're serious right now?" That couldn't wait until _after_?

"I told you – not until you're in racing shape."

"I was keeping up with you just fine."

Dom actually smirks at that, and when Brian leans up to prove his point, Dom takes his hand from his hair and plants it on his chest, pushing him back. "You haven't had a shower in two days, Bri."

That, Brian will begrudgingly admit, is a very valid point. Although what the hell is it with Torettos and showers?

"So, I'll make you a deal." Dom's got to be talking like that on purpose, because it's easily the sexiest thing Brian's ever heard. And he's heard the roar of a 900hp Dodge Charger. "We get up, we take care of getting those bandages of yours wrapped up and waterproofed, we get in the shower," his hand wanders slowly down from Brian's chest, somehow bypassing all the bruises, until his fingers slip just inside the waistband of his sweats, "and then we take care of everything else."

Brian doesn't think he's ever had a harder time swallowing in his life, but his mouth has gone dry, and frankly, it's kind of a miracle when he manages to choke out a hoarse, "Deal."

Not that he even needed to say anything at all, because Dom's already pushing himself up – Brian's gets a little smug when he notices that Dom's boxers aren't that loose, either – and pulling Brian up with him.

"Hope your shower's big enough for two," Brian says as he follows Dom into the bathroom.

Dom catches him in the doorway, hands cupping either side of his jaw and his hips locked tight against Brian's. He leans in and captures Brian's lips again, and when he breaks away, that damned smirk's still there on his lips.

"I don't think we'll take up too much space."

Brian really likes the sound of that.

* * *

_A/N: Aaaaand you can uncover your eyes. That's about as risque as it gets, folks. _

_Seriously, though, I just wanted to say thank you for reading so far (I thought the tenth chapter would be a good place for this little nugget) and for all the reviews you've given me. They are my muse; they keep me writing. Wink wink, nudge nudge. _

_Also, if you have any prompts, feel free to shoot me a line. I'm always looking for new subject matter. _


	11. Chapter 11

They do eventually get out of the shower – _eventually_ – and Dom's out in the bedroom getting dressed already. Brian's moving a little slower, partly because he's sore, but mostly because he's trying to shave with this piece of shit disposable razor, and it's kind of like trying to shave with a shard of scrap metal.

"You about done in there, princess?" Dom calls from the bedroom. Brian's bowing his head over the sink, splashing away any stray shaving cream and what feels like the first layer of skin on his jaw, and when he raises his head, Dom's standing in the doorway behind him.

"Your ribs're looking better," he says.

Brian glances at himself in the mirror and laughs dryly. "I look like roadkill." His ribs are one big blotch of black and blue and just a bit of green around the edges, and he knows if he turns around, he'll see about half a dozen gauze pads and a dozen more scratches riding his shoulders. Yeah, he's healing. But he still looks a hot mess.

Still, he can't help grinning when Dom pushes off the doorframe and comes up behind him, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck before meeting his eyes in the mirror. "Best damn roadkill I've ever seen."

Brian really does laugh, then. "Don't go getting all romantic on me now."

Dom responds by pressing another kiss to his neck, but Brian turns and intercepts it, catching Dom's lips with his own. He smirks into the kiss, because he kind of likes turning the tables on Dom, and it turns into a full-blown grin as Dom grabs his hips and lifts him up onto the counter like it's fucking nothing.

Any other time, Brian would be pretty damn sure where this is going. But Dom's already put a red light on anything more than some mutual fun in the shower, and Brian's reasonable enough to admit that he's probably right to do it. His legs still feel kind of like rubber.

So, no, it's not that. He's drawing a blank on what it is, though, that Dom's got in his mind. At least until Dom opens a drawer and pulls out a fresh roll of compression wrap.

Brian groans and drops his head.

"Yeah, yeah," Dom says unsympathetically, except Brian thinks he can see an apology in his eyes as he opens the package on the wrap. "You know the drill, Bri. Arms up."

It's not a request, and Brian knows he really doesn't have much choice, so he takes a deep breath and lifts his arms up from his sides so Dom can get to his ribs. He tries to convince himself that he'll feel better once it's done; his ribs hurt less when there's a little pressure on them.

"Put your hands on my shoulders," Dom tells him, but he's already guiding Brian's arms into place, and Brian's not too busy dreading what's about to happen to appreciate the solid strength of Dom's shoulders through his t-shirt. "Deep breath—"

"And then let it out deep as I can," Brian finishes for him. "You're right: I know the drill." He takes a deep breath and lets it out, and with any leftover air, he grinds out, "Just get it over with."

He's not trying to be an ass or anything, and he doesn't think Dom takes it like he is, because his lip kind of twitches in a hint of a smile, even as his eyebrows furrow.

Brian usually likes that look – it's the one he gets when he's concentrating real hard on something, and it's usually a car, which is a combination taken pretty much straight from his dreams – but it's kind of hard to like anything right now, because Dom's pulling the bandage around his ribs, and damned if it doesn't feel like someone's busting them all over again.

"Easy, Bri," Dom says. "Bear with me a little longer. And tell me if it's too tight."

"It's too tight."

Dom gives him a look.

Brian manages a strained smile. "Just kidding, man," he says, and then, under his breath, he adds, "mostly."

"You know, my dad used to do this when we were kids." Dom's got his eyes fixed on Brian's chest, but he glances up when he speaks. "Anytime one of us got hurt, he'd pick us up and put us up there, and he'd patch us up. He'd always tell us stories, keep us thinking about something else, and the next thing we knew, we'd be all fixed up."

Somehow, Brian gets the feeling that's kind of what this is, too. He doesn't mind, though. Dom's always got this look in his eyes when he's talking about his dad, and it reminds Brian that there was a time when Dom wasn't…this. When he was just a kid. When he looked up to someone instead of having everyone look up to him. Part of him likes it, because seeing this side of Dom…he knows it's special. He knows that it's Dom's way of letting him in and opening up, and Brian knows – _shit_ does he know – what trust like that is worth.

Still, seeing it…there's a pain in his chest that has nothing to do with his busted ribs. Because, fuck, he doesn't know what's in his eyes when he thinks about his old man, but he knows it's nothing good.

"Brian?" Dom's voice drags him out of his head, and he's not looking at Brian's ribs anymore, but straight in his eyes. "What's wrong, Brian?"

Brian's knee jerk reaction is to lie. To shrug it off, act like it's nothing, not because he doesn't trust Dom, but because he doesn't trust himself.

But that…that wouldn't be fair. And he knows that with Dom, he can't hold back. It's all or nothing.

"It's just…Dom, I don't have any stories like that," he says, and he can tell Dom's confused, so he tries to explain. "The way your old man looked after you guys – if I told mine I'd gotten hurt, he'd tell me to quit bitching and stop getting into trouble." He lets out a bitter-sounding laugh that doesn't even sit right on his own ears. "Shit, half the time, it was him that did it, anyway, so why bother?" The thought of him taking time out of his busy schedule of beating the hell out of Brian and just not fucking being there at all to bandage him up and kiss it better is actually funny.

Except it really, really isn't. It isn't funny. It's fucking heartbreaking, and he still has nightmares sometimes, even though he can't even remember the bastard's face. He still remembers his mom screaming, still remembers lying to Rome about falling out of a tree or some shit like that to explain a broken bone that Rome hadn't seen happen…he still remembers standing in front of the door of his old house in Barstow like it was the gates of hell itself.

Because it kind of was.

So, no, it's not funny. But he's laughing anyway, these quiet, empty chuckles that make his chest feel hollow and his face hurt, because that's better than the alternative.

It's pathetic, but he jumps when Dom's hand touches his shoulder, and he knows Dom notices, but he doesn't seem to care, because he just slides his hand up until it's cupping the side of his neck.

"Hey," Dom says. "Brian, look at me." And then he waits. Thumb stroking gently over the line of Brian's jaw, his other hand holding Brian's hip, he waits, until Brian manages to scrounge up enough nerve to raise his head.

He almost turns it just as soon as he does, though, because the looks Dom's giving him is _intense_. Damn, but it's intense. It's not pity, and Brian's grateful for that, because that's not something he thinks he can take, especially not from Dom. No, this…this is more like anger. Fury, even, and this fierce sort of protectiveness that's made all the clearer by Dom's hold on him. By how close he is. He's standing between Brian's knees, leaning against the countertop, and he's not so much invading Brian's space as claiming it. Guarding it.

When Dom speaks, his voice is low and measured, and Brian feels his hair stand on end just hearing it. His eyes are locked so hard on Brian's that he couldn't look away if he wanted to.

"No one," he says, "_no one_ is ever going to do you like that again. You understand?"

Brian can only nod dumbly, because even though he knows that, in his line of work, he's going to get bumps and bruises, he also knows that he'll have this to come back to, now. And that, he thinks, is what Dom really means – what Dom's really offering.

A family. A real family.

A _home_.

And when Dom pulls him close, folds his arms around him, _surrounds_ him in that same damn solidness that feels like the only thing that's ever grounded him in his whole crazy ass life, he realizes, for the first time, what all that actually means.

And he realizes, now that he has it…he can never leave home again.

He doesn't know how long they're there. He does know that they probably look pretty damn ridiculous, though. Brian's sitting there on the bathroom counter in nothing but a pair of board shorts that he keeps in his car for "emergencies" – code for when he wants to surf and can't afford to mess up whatever clothes he's wearing – and an ACE bandage, and Dom's holding him like he can't bear to let go.

It only gets more ridiculous when, out of the silence, Brian's stomach decides to make this ungodly noise to remind him that it's been over twelve hours since he's eaten, and that that shit's not gonna fly.

Brian feels his face heat up, and he knows he's red when Dom leans back and looks at him. But Dom's smiling, so Brian thinks he can take it.

He grins. "I could eat." A horse. He could eat a horse.

"Alright, then." With a smirk, Dom gives him a hand down off the counter and ruffles his hair. "Get your blouse on, and let's hit the road."

Brian knows it's pretty much useless, but it makes him feel better to give Dom a solid sock on the arm before he follows him out the door.


	12. Chapter 12

Brian's next trip down the stairs goes a lot better than the first. He's getting back in the swing of this crutches thing – it helps that he bumped them up a level so they sit right – and he manages not to fall on his ass by the sixth step. He's pretty psyched about.

What he's not so psyched about is his audience. He guesses he just kind of figured, when Dom said he was going on ahead downstairs, that he was actually going to be doing stuff downstairs, not just…literally…standing at the bottom of the stairs. Watching his every move. Barely blinking.

Brian makes it two more steps before he can't take it anymore.

"Dom, man, seriously?" he says.

Dom furrows his brows. "What?"

"Why are you watching me?"

"I'm not watching you," Dom tells him. "I'm just waiting on you to get your fine ass downstairs."

Brian's not buying that for a second. Even if Dom did say he has a fine ass. "Bullshit. You've been looking at me this whole damn time."

"I ain't allowed to look at you?" Crossing his arms, Dom smirks up at him, and damned if he doesn't look like he's getting a kick out of this. "Never seemed to bother you before."

That's not actually true, Brian thinks. He's gotten _bothered_ plenty of times feeling Dom's eyes on him. That dark gaze burning into his back when they were working in the garage, peering at him through the screen at the convenience store…fuck. He gets kind of bothered just thinking about it.

_Not the time, man. Not the time._ And definitely not the place, he thinks. He's done more with less, and he's not ruling it out; he's just thinking, if there's gonna be something digging into his hip, he doesn't want it to be the _stairs_.

"Hey, Buster, you just gonna stand there all day?"

Brian snaps out of his daze and narrows his eyes. "Keep talking, I'm just gonna jump and land on your ass."

Dom just opens his arms. "Come on, then," he says, and Brian _actually_ can't tell if he's serious or not. He's tempted to take a running leap, just to test it, but considering Dom's all the way at the bottom of the steps, and there's a hell of a margin for error, he's thinking it's probably best not to risk it.

Besides, as hard as it is to remember sometimes, Dom's not actually superhuman. There's a strong possibility one of them could get hurt. Possibly dead.

He'll take the stairs, thanks.

"You're an asshole," he mutters, adjusting his grip on his crutches so he can keep on going down the stairs. He can already tell these are going to get old, but Mia said he should stay off his knee for at least a couple days, which Dom had then translated into 'if I see you walking without those crutches, I'm tying your ass to a chair.'

Brian's not afraid of a whole lot in this world, but he's pretty sure if the wrath of two Toretto's doesn't make you sweat a little, you're either stupid or suicidal. Brian's definitely not the latter, and even though he's the former on any day that ends in a –y, he knows not to try his luck.

Still, this shit's taking forever.

"You do realize I walked here, right?" Brian says as he comes down the last few steps. He's never realized how long it takes to go down steps one at a time until he's having to plant both feet on each one. "I mean, I can do it."

"Not for the next few days you can't," Dom replies, and he's smiling, but Brian knows he ain't joking.

Brian's only a few steps from the bottom, now, and he sighs. Maybe he should've brought this up while he was still at the top, but it needs saying. "You know I gotta get back to work, right?"

Dom's smile falls, and Brian stops on the last step, leaning a little heavier on his crutches than he wants to admit. He's _really_ hoping this isn't about to turn into one of those _talks_ Dom and him keep having. The last one didn't go so bad, but historically speaking, the track record's still not great.

"I told you going into this how it's gonna be, Dom," he says, and fuck, he sounds tired. He just really doesn't want another argument.

Whether or not Dom picks up on it, Brian really can't tell – he's thinking, though, that he probably does, because this is fucking Dom, and he's just good like that – but Brian can see him easing up on the throttle just a bit.

"I ain't asking you to quit your job." He wants to; Brian _knows_ he wants to, but he doesn't, and Brian appreciates that more than he can ever explain, because he _needs_ this job. He needs the rush, the thrill, needs to feel like he's _doing something_.

And he doesn't think he could tell Dom no.

He grins in relief, mostly because that's a bullet dodged, but also because he's made it down to ground level without falling on his face, and he's counting that a win. And because he's on a roll, he starts for the door.

Dom stops him before he can even make it another step, his hand on Brian's chest.

"Hold it, Buster," he says. "I wasn't done."

Of course he wasn't. Because why would Brian's life actually be that easy.

But Dom takes one look at him and chuckles. "You really do have that kicked puppy shit down to an art, don't you?"

"I will _actually_ dead-leg you with this crutch." Brian lifts his right crutch, tapping Dom a few times on the side of the leg to illustrate his point. "No shit."

"I'd like to see you try it."

See, and that's a problem, because Dom _knows_ Brian's never been able to turn down a challenge. So, Dom's eyes tick down to Brian's crutch about point-five seconds before Brian drops the damn things and full-on tackles him. It ain't for real, just playing to prove a point, but Brian still gets him, shoulder into his gut, arms around him like he's a linebacker going in for a sack, and he takes a lot more satisfaction than he should at hearing Dom grunt.

Next thing he knows, though, Dom's got his hands around his waist – just his hands, because fuck, that's all he needs – and he's turning Brian around, pulling him back against his chest, and _then_ he wraps his arms around his waist and Brian swears his feet leave the ground. Which is kind of amazing, because it doesn't actually _hurt_.

Okay, maybe it twinges a bit. But it should hurt a lot more, only he knows Dom's got his hands and arms in just the right places, is putting pressure on just the spots there aren't any bruises, and that makes him grin all the wider, because even if Dom doesn't do the big gestures – which is good, actually, because Brian's always thought that shit was shallow – there are so many little things he does that, to Brian at least, mean a hell of a lot more.

The fact that he lets Brian get away with shit like this says a lot, too.

Well, maybe not getting away with it.

"You think that's funny, O'Conner?" Dom says, and his lips are so he can feel the warmth of his breath on his face.

He's suddenly seriously reconsidering his position on stairs.

He just grins a little wider, cutting his eyes at Dom. "You said try it."

Dom just chuckles again, and Brian feels the sound rumble in his own chest, deep and low like the purr of an engine. "You're a little bit crazy, you know that?"

"Only a little bit?" It's Brian's turn to chuckle. "Damn, guess I'll have to try harder."

"Oh, I doubt that." Dom presses a kiss to the back of Brian's neck, and then lets him go. And of course, he stoops down to get Brian's crutches for him, because he's Dominic-fucking-Toretto, and Brian definitely, _definitely_ doesn't deserve him.

That thought makes his chest ache a little bit, but then Dom's holding the crutches out for him and catching his lips in a real kiss once he's got his c-legs – yeah, he went there – under him. And that definitely takes the edge off. It's like he said: fuck Lortab; he'd say bottle this shit, except that would mean sharing, and he was never real good at that.

"But just so we're clear," Dom says when he breaks the kiss, and his face can't be more than a couple inches from Brian's, and he's got his hand in Brian's hair, cupping the back of his head, "just 'cause I'm not telling you to quit doesn't mean you're not taking a vacation."

Brian opens his mouth to protest, but Dom leans in a little closer, and Brian can practically taste the mint of his toothpaste and smell the warm spice of his aftershave, and anything he had to say is right out, because it turns out, he's always stupid, but Dom's got this weird way of concentrating his stupid that would worry him if he could manage to throw a thought together.

Dom's looking at him, his hot-coal eyes burning into Brian's, and Brian can't look away. "The rest of the week. I got you the rest of the week, and then you can go back."

Brian knows that voice. It's his 'take it or leave it' voice, except the 'leave it' is really just a formality, because no one in their right minds is gonna turn him down when he's looking like that, and despite being crazy stupid, Brian does like to think he still falls under that category.

It's Sunday, he thinks, so the rest of the week is really a whole week. But then, Tanner's a pretty reasonable guy. He's thinking maybe if he calls him, explains the situation – a version of it, anyway – he can maybe get a break. He can say it's for the case, if he has to. And hell, he can think of worse ways to spend a week than hanging here or at the garage. Beats the hell out of desk duty, which he's pretty sure is where he'd be if Tanner actually laid eyes on him.

"What about Harry?" Because while he doesn't think the LAPD's gonna miss him for a week – it's not like he keeps regular hours there, anyway, his area of expertise being what it is – Harry's been short-staffed since that chick that used to run registers went back to college, and he feels bad leaving him another hand down.

"I'll talk to him when we swing by there."

Brian raises an eyebrow. "We're swinging by Harry's?" That's new to him.

"Gotta pick up some parts for a new build," Dom says. "Figured we could pick up some shit for you to keep at the house while we're there."

"Careful. You might not be able to get rid of me." He's just joking, but he has to admit he wouldn't mind trading in that cot at Harry's for a few more nights like the last one.

"Maybe that's the idea."

Brian starts to laugh, but then he realizes Dom's not laughing. He's got that same intense look he had before, and Brian kind of wonders if…maybe he wasn't joking?

Mia's words echo in his head. _They just showed up one night and never left_.

Maybe that should scare him a little bit, because logically, he knows this _has_ been moving awfully fast. But they're on Toretto time, and Brian thinks it goes without saying that's a hell of a lot faster than regular time. He and Dom have been through more shit in the last couple months than most people go through their whole lives, and he thinks the fact that they're not trying to kill each other – not _seriously_ trying, anyway – is probably a really good sign.

And besides, it's not like he's asking him to marry him. It's just a week. And if it ends up being more than that?

Well, like he said: he could think of worse things.

It's shaping up to be a pretty fan-fucking-tastic day, Brian decides, and he feels like a kid headed to Disney getting to go back to DT's. He leans forward and steals a kiss of his own before hobbling back on his crutches a little bit and nodding his head towards the door. "Race you to the car?" he says, and he's happy to see a smile come back on Dom's face, even if he knows it's 'cause Dom's laughing at him on the inside.

"Not so fast, Buster." Dom goes to open the door, and Brian takes the cue to start heading for it. He must look kind of sulky, though, because as he's passing him, Dom reaches out and roughs his hair. "Hey, we got time, remember?" he says. "We'll get you racing again soon enough."

Brian just grins a little wider. "Looking forward to it."


	13. Chapter 13

Sometimes, Brian forgets how small the back room at Henry's is. He just gets used to it, and it's not until he spends a little time away from it, sees how real people live again, that he remembers he's essentially living in a closet.

Which is kind of funny, when he thinks about it, considering everything that's happened the last few days.

He doesn't really care. About the room, he means, not about the last few days, because he actually really _does_ care about those. But the room, nah. It's just a place to stay. It's a bed – if you can even call it that without being ironic – a couple shelves, and a couple drawers. Not much, but then, he doesn't need much. He's…adaptable.

Besides, there're worse things to fall asleep surrounded by than car parts. There're better – _warm arms, the sound of even breaths, and a deep, steady heartbeat _– but there are definitely, definitely worse. It's easier to find shit this way, too; there's only a few places things could be.

He grabs some jeans and, after fighting with them for a few minutes trying to get them on over the brace, he gives up and puts the brace on over them. It's not like it's any big secret that he's got a busted knee; the crutches are kind of a dead giveaway.

They're also a pain in the ass in a tight space, though, so Brian leaves them propped in the doorway. He's pretty sure he can manage to hobble around his room without falling on his ass, and since Dom's out waiting in the car, and the store's closed for the day, there's no one to call him on it.

And _since_ Dom's out in the car, Brian figures it's as good a time as any to put that call in to Tanner and ask off for the week.

He's got the phone held between his shoulder and his ear, and he's sitting on his bed trying to get his sneakers on while he talks to Tanner. "Nothing happened," he's saying, because of course, that's the first thing out of Tanner's mouth is asking him what happened in that 'what did you do this time' tone of voice he seems to reserve just for Brian. "Everything's copacetic."

He smiles, then, because even if Dom's not around to hear it, he can imagine him rolling his eyes in that fond 'why do I put up with this?' way that _he_ seems to reserve just for Brian.

He's quiet for a second while Tanner talks, and then he nods, even though non-verbals are kind of lost in a phone call. It's just habit. "Yeah, if you could swing a week, that'd be good. Personal reasons." He pauses, then frowns and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You sure you can't swing it? …oh, okay. Yeah, I guess that'll have to work, then. Tell Myers I said congrats on the baby girl." And then he snaps his phone shut, and it might be a little harder than he needs to, but he's too busy dropping his head into his hands to notice.

He doesn't get a week. He gets until Wednesday, but one of the guys just had a baby, and they're shorthanded. Don't get him wrong; he's cool with it, personally. He's sure as hell not gonna hold it against a guy for wanting to spend some time with his newborn child, and he's pretty sure he'll be fine enough to work by Wednesday.

He's just not real excited about telling Dom.

It's not that he thinks he'll flip out or anything. Brian tried, so it's not his fault, and he thinks that if anyone's gonna understand taking time for family, it'll be Dom. Still…maybe it's stupid or pathetic or something, but he just—he just really doesn't want to disappoint him. Dom doesn't ask for a whole hell of a lot. Honesty and trust, maybe, but he gives a hell of a lot more, and Brian just feels like he keeps doing shit halfway. He can't tell him everything about the case he's working, and Brian's working on the whole trust thing, seriously, but it's just really hard to change twenty-two years of bad habits. He can't get a whole week off, so he gets three days.

It just feels like all he's doing is _trying_, and maybe that's good enough for Dom, but it's not _good_ enough for Dom. He deserves better than that. Brian wants to give him better than that, and he's trying, but it's just not working out how he—

There's a knock on the door, and Brian jerks his head up out of his hands to see Dom standing there, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.

"You okay?" he says, and it's seem kind of casual, offhand, if he wasn't looking at Brian like he is. And Brian realizes right about then that sitting there on his bed with his head in his hands probably isn't a really reassuring picture.

He straightens up, rubbing a hand over his face real quick and shoving his phone in his pocket. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I'm good." He thinks the fact that he manages to get to his feet without toppling over or anything should be a point in his favor.

And he's not avoiding Dom's eyes; he swears. He's just trying to find a shirt.

"So, I called Tanner," he says, mostly just to fill the silence.

"And?"

He picks a t-shirt out of the drawer, gives it a quick sniff, and decides it'll do. "And I got some good news and some bad news." He shrugs the shirt on, and it catches on his nose a little bit, and by the time he gets his head out, Dom's standing in front of him.

"What's the good news?" Dom asks, face impassive. He's not looking at Brian, but at his chest, and Brian thinks about making a crack about his eyes being up here, but then Dom reaches out and takes the hem of the shirt where it's bunched up under his arms – the elastic wrap's a little bulky, and he's still working to get his full range of motion back in his shoulders – and fixes it for him. And damned if that doesn't kill any smart remark on his lips, because Dom's just so…_shit_, he doesn't have a word for it, but it makes his heart beat faster and his face feel a little warmer, and for someone that's always got something to say, it's strangely hard to find his voice.

He ends up having to clear his throat. "Good news is, a guy at the precinct's wife just had a baby. Poor bastard's been stressing about it for months."

"Good for him." And even though he's finished helping Brian with his shirt, Dom doesn't move back. Brian can almost feel the heat that seems to radiate off him like a damn furnace. "And what's the bad news?"

That's the part Brian really doesn't want to say, but he figures it's kind of like ripping off a bandage. He manages a sheepish chuckle, and he wants to rub the back of his neck, but that's not happening, so he settles for picking at his newly-righted t-shirt. "Bad news is, between his paternity leave and a guy we got out for appendicitis, we're short-staffed."

And color him chicken-shit, but he really doesn't want to see Dom's face when he tells him that the week they agreed on isn't gonna happen, so he slips out from in front of him and sets to filling his duffle bag with some spare clothes.

"So what's that mean for you?" Dom asks, and when Brian doesn't answer as quickly as he wants, he prompts him. "_Brian_."

It's the tone of voice that makes Brian pause in the middle of stuffing some t-shirts in his bag and sigh before going right back to packing his bag, just with a little less gusto. "It means I can't take the week."

"Brian—"

"I got until Wednesday, though," he says quickly, because at least there's that. And he may or may not be using the mostly-packed duffel bag as a visual aid. He's still packing stuff; he's still staying a little while. It's just not what they originally planned. "I figure I can just take it easy the other two days. 'm sure I got some paperwork I can be doing." Tanner'll be thrilled.

There's a second where Dom doesn't answer, and Brian's _not_ freaking out, because that'd just be pathetic. Seriously. But then,

"I ain't your keeper, Brian. You don't answer to me." Coming from anyone else, it would sound harsh, but from Dom, and _to_ Brian, it's a reassurance. Brian's not used to being coddled, not used to having people that really care one way or the other, and the fact that Dom's willing to give a little, meet him halfway, the fact that he's not expecting him to change all that in a couple days, that's a relief Brian really needed. "So would you stop skulking around and hurry up? We got places to be."

The last bit catches Brian a little off guard, and he turns around to see Dom smiling at him, the one that says he's having a laugh at Brian's expense. And Brian's actually totally okay with that, because he thinks if Dom can put a damper on his protective streak, he can manage to put one on his ego.

"Yeah, yeah. Keep your pants on," Brian grumbles, grabbing one last thing off his table before zipping up his bag and meeting Dom at the doorway.

Dom's still smiling. "Never thought I'd hear that coming from you."

"You're an asshole."

"And you're a pain in the ass," Dom says. "Guess that works out pretty well."

It's Brian's turn to smile, as he shoulders his bag and leads the way out the door. "Yeah, I guess it does." And he thinks that's the end of it, and he's heading for the door, only to realize about halfway to the counter that Dom's not with him.

He turns around, and can't keep the cringe off his face when he sees Dom still standing by the doorway, arms folded and eyebrow raised. "You forgetting something, O'Conner?" And in case Brian didn't catch on, he kind of ticks his head to the side.

Brian's crutches are still propped up on the wall.

He's about to go for them, but Dom beats him to it, grabbing them off the wall and bringing them to him.

"Pain in my ass," he says again as Brian takes them, but he's still smiling as he shakes his head, and as much as he sounds exasperated, he sounds fond, which makes it fine by Brian. "You got everything you need, Princess?"

Brian can't resist. He shuffles right up to Dom and lays one on him, then leans back with a wide grin and a wink. "I do now."

"Cheese ball."

"You know you love it."

And it turns out two can play this game, because Dom moves closer, presses a hand to Brian's cheek, looks him dead in the eye, and says, "I do now." And then he leans in and kisses him, and it's slow and deep and full of something Brian's not sure he wants to put a name to, and it isn't until air forces them apart that they stop.

Brian's face feels like it's on fire when they do – shit, his whole body does, and he doesn't know how much of it's Dom, and how much of it's…well, _Dom_ – and he's a little out of breath as he runs his tongue across his lips. "You know we're never gonna make it to the garage at this rate." Not that he's complaining, because believe him, he's not.

Dom just presses their heads together, their noses brushing, and a rests a firm hand on Brian's hip. "It ain't going anywhere," he says, and his voice is low and rasped, and Brian feels it rumble pleasantly in his chest before the intoxicating feeling of Dom's lips recapturing his drowns everything else out.

Looks like they aren't going anywhere, either. At least, not for a while.


	14. Chapter 14

Being back at DT's is like coming back home after a really long time: some things have changed – what cars they're working on, what parts are stacked up in the corner, what kind of clutter's on the worktable – but where it counts, it's just the same. Same layout, same music coming through the crappy stereo, same sounds of metal on metal and shit getting done.

He doesn't realize he's stopped until he feels Dom's hand on the small of his back.

"You waiting for the grand tour?" he says, but his eyes say something different. They say '_are you good?_' They've been saying that a lot these days.

Brian figures this is as good a time as any to make that stop. He smiles, and standing in the doorway of this fucking gearhead Mecca, he doesn't even have to force it. This is his niche. This is his home.

Well, his second home, he guesses. Which is kind of amazing, because a few days ago, he didn't even have one. Now he's got a freaking spare? Since when was he so lucky?

"Nah, man, I got it."

Dom smiles, too. "Buster remembers his way around the garage, huh?"

"You say that like I ever forgot." It just comes out; he doesn't think it's all that meaningful a thing to say or anything. Apparently, it's the right thing, though, because Dom's smile hitches a little wider, and he looks pleased about something.

He moves his hand up from Brian's back to squeeze his shoulder – and of course he avoids all the still-healing cuts, which is good, because they're kind of weirdly sore; he blames it on the crutches – and then slips past him on into the garage. "We'll see," Brian hears him say.

He doesn't have to see his face to know he's smirking.

Brian follows Dom's lead into the garage. He's not clingy or anything, he's just really not sure where to be. In times past, it was pretty much just 'see something that needs doing, you do it' but Brian's not really sure what they got going on right now, so he figures he'll just hang back a little bit and get a feel for things before he jumps in. Assuming Dom'll let him in on anything, that is.

But Dom looks like he's not even paying attention. He walks right on in, ditching his jacket as he goes so that he's just in one of his white wife-beaters. Brian's seen enough of them to know that, by the end of the day, that shit's gonna end up looking like one of those grease rags hanging out of Vince's back pock—

Shit, Vince.

He hadn't thought about that.

Vince is here at the garage, hunched over the open hood of a work-in-progress Nissan 350Z. Leon's here, too, sitting in the driver's seat, probably turning the ECU, but Brian's not real worried about him.

He's not _worried_ about Vince, either. Just…wary. Any interaction between them, historically speaking, hasn't gone so great. He's got the split lip to prove it. And even though he knows probably nothing's gonna go down, especially with Dom and Leon around, he also knows he's not exactly gonna be in peak physical condition if it does, and that has him on edge.

"Yo, Dom," Leon says. He's swinging his legs out of the car; apparently, he saw Dom first. Brian's cool with that. Hell, if he can just get over to that stool by the workbench without calling attention to himself, he'll be happy. "Hey, look who's back on his feet!"

Well, so much for that.

Brian stops in his path to the workbench to flash Leon a grin. He's acutely aware of Vince's eyes on him now, but he got pretty good at ignoring him before, and it turns out, it's kinda like riding a bike. So Vince ain't happy to see him; ain't no skin off his ass.

"Yeah, man, more or less." He lifts up one of the crutches for illustration.

Leon just shrugs. "One step at a time."

"True that," Brian agrees. Of course, anything more than one step at a time would probably have him eating concrete, but he keeps that to himself. He still has some dignity left, and he'd kinda like to keep it, thanks.

Vince doesn't say anything – Brian's waiting for it, too – just goes back to whatever it is he's doing under the hood of that car. Still, Brian doesn't miss the way he cuts his eyes at him. If looks could kill, Brian figures Vince would be succeeding where Yeung and more than a few others had failed.

Like he said, though: it's like riding a bike, ignoring Vince's eyes. Dom's are something different. He's watching, even though he's pretending to be focused on the Nissan, and Brian isn't looking for any trouble, so he just goes over and sits by the work bench. Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing to just hang out for a little while, take a breather. This whole 'fresh air, getting out of the house' thing is turning out to be a lot more exhausting than he thought it would be.

He's still got energy, though. The restless kind that comes from being pretty much stationary for days, and even if the rest of him's beat to hell, he's still got two perfectly good hands and some time to kill.

When he turns around to the work table, he notices that the clutter of the day seems to be what looks like the parts of an alternator, all scattered except for the rotor assembly which looks mostly intact. And he can tell it's definitely in the process of being put together instead of taken apart, because the parts are all new, and there's a box sitting to the side.

_If it needs doing…._

So, Brian does it. He likes this part of the build, all the little things. The small pieces coming together. Baring, pulley, stator, cover…he's done this a few times, and now there's something kinda soothing, kinda hypnotic about it. Like cleaning a gun, except this doesn't remind him of things he'd like to forget doing; it brings back things he's glad to be doing again. Things he missed. Things he's so glad to have gotten back.

He's so caught up in it, he doesn't even notice the fourth person in the room until the shadow appears on the workbench. He whips right around then – and whoa, shit, blood rush, not good – and as soon as the spots fade enough for him to see again, his face splits in a grin.

"Jesse!" Sure enough, there he is, in the flesh. He looks a little slighter than Brian remembers, but he guesses getting shot'll do that to a guy, and he looks fine otherwise. Definitely better than the last time he saw him.

He's so happy, he doesn't even mind the way his shoulders burn or his ribs ache as he grabs Jesse in for a hug.

"Shit, it's good to see you, man," he says when they break apart, and he claps Jesse on the arm. He knows he wasn't with them _that_ long, but Jesse felt kind of like a brother to him when he was running with the team. Someone he wanted to look out for, someone he was always fiercely proud of, because the kid is a freaking genius.

Jesse's smiling, too, and it's a lot like the smile he gets when he's working with cars or computers. He's not really sure when he turned into such a sap, but he feels his chest swell happily, because he knows that's one hell of a compliment.

"You too," Jesse says, and then his face lights up, and Brian knows what's coming next. "You wanna see this new design I'm working on? It's for that old Integra over there." He points past the Nissan to a stripped primer Integra up on jacks, and Brian can't help chuckling, because it's only a little bit better than Supra when he first brought it in.

"Another ten second car, huh?"

"It will be," Jesse tells him, and Brian believes it. Jesse's a miracle worker. All of them are. And he knows he's lucky just to get to be a part of it. "So, you wanna see?"

"Yeah, definitely." He's not just saying that, either. He loves seeing the shit Jesse can come up with. It's like watching freaking Michelangelo at work.

It's a sure sign of just how well-trained Dom's got his people that they both automatically look at him to make sure it's okay. Not, Brian's ego supplies, that he needs Dom's blessing.

He just likes having it.

Dom's already looking right back at them – Leon, too, but Vince seems to be making a point of keeping his eyes on his work – and he's got this…look on his face. Like he's happy, only it's more than that. Content, maybe. That's a better word for it. But Brian's pretty terrible with words, so there's probably still a better one out there. It's just, he looks like everything's _right_ or something, and Brian, he thinks he gets it, because he feels it, too. He's got his home, he's got his family, and he's got his gravity. As far as he's concerned, life doesn't get much better than this.

And then Jesse, God love him, ruins the moment with a quick, "Sweet, come on," and all but drags Brian up out of his seat. He barely has time to get his crutches under his arms – and damn, he really is sore – before he's being tugged towards the "office," which is really just a metal and glass cage set up in the back corner.

"Hey, Jesse, take it easy on him," Dom calls. "Today's just a test run." It sounds like a joke, but there's an underlying note of seriousness to it. Warning. And Brian wants to tell him he's fine, tell Jesse not to worry, but the truth is, he's kind of weirdly tired, and he appreciates it when Jesse slows down.

Jesse's already got his computer going when Brain gets in there, but he takes the time that Brian's using to drop into one of the Chairs to pull up a few extra windows.

As soon as they're both situated, Jesse takes off, and Brian's happy just to listen to him go. He only understands about two-thirds of it, but that's a whole hell of a lot better than he did at first. Maybe, he thinks, if he sticks around long enough, he'll eventually be able to chime in with something more helpful than telling Jesse how great he is. Not that he doesn't deserve it, and not that he shouldn't hear it. Hell, there was a time when Brian would've given anything to have someone do the same for him. So maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing if he never got past it.

That's something to worry about later, though. Right now, Jesse has his undivided attention, rattling off his mods and designs he got for this new build. And Brian stares at the screen like it's a freaking work of art when Jesse pulls up the specs on the screen, partly because it's wicked cool, but mostly because he feels like it's a window into the crazy genius shit that goes on in that head of his.

Eventually, the computer isn't enough. Jesse drags him out of the office like an excited puppy tugging on his leash, through the garage when Dom's disappeared under the Nissan and Leon's joined Vince at the hood. They both glance up, and Leon smiles a little like he's having a good laugh at Brian's expense, but then they both go right back to work, and he and Jesse keep on right back to the Integra.

"Just think about it," Jesse says, leaning forward on the B-pillar as Brian leans a little heavier on his crutches, "do this in silver or some shit, get the engine set up right with T3 turbo and frontmount intercooler system. It's gonna be pretty sweet, right?"

"Sounds good to me." But that's all Brian can say, because he understands him just fine, but he can't picture things the way Jesse can. He can put things together with his hands. Jesse can do it all in his head.

Sometimes, he wonders if it's just cars. He thinks it is; Jesse told him once that it was. But Brian can only imagine what it would be like, being able to see all that in other things. In people, even.

He wonders if that's what it's like in Dom's head. Seeing the potential in people that other people write off as hopeless and broken down like this Integra. Like the Supra. Looking past the rust and rough edges and seeing all the good parts underneath. It takes a special kind of vision to take on projects like that.

Brian thinks he's a lot like this Integra. And he kind of wonders what Dom sees in him that makes him think he's worth the wrench time.

"You wanna help me strip the engine?" Jesse says suddenly.

As much as Brian likes putting things together, he likes taking them apart, too. So he nods. "Just tell me where we're at and where you need me."

Jesse does. He tells Brian what needs to be done, but then he leaves Brian to do it while he gets to work on the other side, and Brian appreciates it. He doesn't need a babysitter; he still knows what to do and how to do it. He just needs to get back in the swing of things.

He thinks this is a good start. Leaning his crutches against the hood – not like he has to worry about scratching the paint – he gets to work with Jesse, stripping the Integra down to its bones so they can build it back up again.

Jesse was right about one thing: this has potential. 192 horsepower B18C6 engine with an S80 LSD transmission…it's corroded and dusty and greasy as hell, but that'll tear the hell out of a quarter-mile once it's fixed up right. Clean up some of the parts, maybe replace some of the pistons and a few of the smaller parts that didn't hold up so well, and this shit's gonna purr. And maybe Brian doesn't have Jesse's imagination, or even Dom's, but he doesn't really need it.

He knows what power sounds like.

After a little while – or maybe a long one; it's hard to tell, because time seems to flow differently in the garage – Brian's elbows-deep in the engine block trying to get at the alternator which, from the looks of things, is pretty much shot. He thinks the one on the worktable might be its replacement.

He's sweaty. It's dripping in his eyes, smearing the grease and dirty and powdered rust all up and down his arms, and probably on his face, but he doesn't really mind. He's happy. Tired, nasty, and sore, but happy.

"Hey."

Brian's so focused on what he's doing that Dom's voice makes him jump, and he drops the socket wrench he was using down through the radiator fan. "Shit."

Behind him, he hears the rumble of Dom's chuckle, and it's not long before he feels it, too, against his back as Dom comes up behind him.

Brian can't help it; his eyes flick over to the Nissan where he saw Vince last. He's not worried about what Vince'll thing of him – he's pretty sure the guy's opinion of him can't get any lower, and Brian really can't bring himself to give a rat's ass – but he doesn't want to screw things up between him and Dom.

Dom's arm's tighten around his waist, and it's like he reads Brian's mind, because he tells him, "I talked to him. He knows."

"And he's cool with it?" That seems a little too easy.

"He's gonna have to be," Dom says, and he says it like he says everything else: firmly, solidly, and with a certainty that Brian only wishes he could have. "So, I'm going to get lunch. You want to come?"

He's not even trying to be subtle with that subject change, but Brian doesn't mind. He goes right along with it. "Nah, I think I'm gonna finish here." He gestures with one grease-smeared hand at the engine. Jesse dropped out a little while ago, disappeared back into the office, but Brian's always had a tendency to get a little…involved with what he's doing.

"I thought I told you to take it easy," Dom mutters, but there's a hint of fondness in his voice that Brian's learned to pick out.

It's how he knows he can shoot a cheeky grin over his shoulder and get away with it. "You told Jesse that; you didn't say anything to me."

Well, mostly get away with it. Dom still cuffs him on the ear, but it's light – more a love tap, really. "Smartass."

"I feel like we've had this conversation."

"And you haven't changed since."

"Guess not."

"Good." Dom presses a kiss to the back of Brian's neck, just behind his ear. "Don't." And then he backs away, turning Brian around by his hips, and lets him lean back against the grill. Brian hadn't realized how tired his legs were until some of the weight was off them. "So, what do you want?"

"A pony."

This time, Dom flicks him on the nose, and Brian can actually _see_ the dark smudge he leaves behind. "I meant for lunch."

"I know what you meant." He just felt like being clever. "You know me: I'll eat anything."

Dom rolls his eyes. "You sure you ain't a teenager?"

Brian shrugs innocently. He guesses he's really not that far removed, much as he hates to admit it, but he's always been a bottomless pit when it comes to food. That has nothing to do with age.

"Alright," Dom says. "I'll bring you something back."

"Thanks."

Dom waves him off, and he starts to leave. He only makes it a few steps, though, before he turns back around. "I meant what I said, Brian. Don't overdo it, you understand?" His eyes are set hard; there's no room for argument.

So, Brian doesn't try. Instead, he just nods. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I got it. Take it easy. Can do."

"Good ." Dom nods. "And one more thing?"

"Yeah?"

Dom glances back at the Nissan, where Vince is leaning over the hood. "Try to stay out of trouble." And before Brian can muster up a semi-decent response, Dom turns back around and heads for the door.

Brian waits until he sees his Mazda pull out into the street before turning back to the Integra. As he does, he catches Vince looking out of the corner of his eye, but he just smiles, shakes his head, and gets to work getting his socket wrench back.

_Just like riding a bike_.


	15. Chapter 15

It isn't until his hands start shaking that Brian realizes he might've gone against Dom's advice and overdone it. Of course, it isn't until he drops his socket wrench the second time that he realizes his hands are shaking. The sharp metallic clang it makes when it hits the concrete of the floor makes him jump like he's been fucking shot, and all of the sudden, he's leaning up against the hood of the car, because he's not really sure he'd stay vertical if he wasn't.

"Droppin' shit all over the place," he hears someone mutter, and it sounds a lot like Vince, and suddenly, Vince is straightening up, the wrench in his hand. Brian has no idea how he got there so quick, but _shit_. "Still a goddamn—" But Vince stops, and his scowl kind of morphs. Brian's not real sure what to call it anymore, but it doesn't look as much angry as…something else. "Hey, Buster, you ain't lookin' so hot."

"I'm fine, man," Brian says automatically. Truth is, he's not so sure he is. His head's kind of spinning, and his back hurts more than he remembers. Definitely, he thinks. _Definitely_ overdid it. Fuck.

Vince ain't an idiot, either. Least not today, which Brian thinks is pretty damn inconvenient. "Bullshit."

"Just leave it, man." He doesn't feel like a fight. He just wants to take a breather and maybe get this damn crankshaft out before Dom gets back.

He turns around to get to doing just that, only before he can get more than halfway there, a hand clamps around his upper arm and turns him around. It's not hard – sure as hell not as hard as he's expecting from Vince – but it's still enough to make his knee buckle a little, and he stumbles. He manages to catch himself, because shit, he's not _that_ out of it, but it's still enough. Vince notices, and if the way he's frowning and furrowing his eyebrows like that, Brian doesn't think he's too happy.

"Nah, Buster, you're done for the day. Come on." And he starts to pull Brian away from the car, but Brian shakes him off.

"Since when do you give a shit?"

Vince's frown tightens. "Since Dom'll have my ass if he comes back and finds you passed out on the floor like a fucking idiot," he all but growls, and this time when he starts pulling Brian along, there's pretty much jack shit he can do about it.

Honestly, he doesn't really try. Vince's right, much as he hates to admit it. He needs to take a break, or else someone's gonna be peeling him off the concrete. Probably Dom. And not for nothing, but he thinks he's reached his quota on lectures and stern looks for the month. Maybe the year.

So he lets Vince drag him away. Except he's not really dragging him as much as helping him, which is kind of surprising. He's got a hand around his waist, grabbing onto his belt loop, and as much as Brian's pride is telling him to walk on his own two feet, his own two feet are telling him that's just not gonna happen.

He's relieved when they get over to the couch, and Vince lets him down with an express order to 'stay his ass on the damn couch' before walking off.

Brian sighs and bends over his knees, his head sagging into his hands. His back's burning like a bitch, and his knee aches, and it occurs to him that he hasn't had anything but those two aspirin he took this morning. Which would be fine. The pain's not that bad. He just feels hot and dizzy and a little bit nauseous, and that's what's getting to him.

"Hey."

He forces himself to lift his head and sees Vince standing over him, and it's about point two seconds before something cold touches the back of his hand. Bottled water.

"Drink that," Vince tells him gruffly as Brian takes it. "Need me to call somebody? Dom?"

Brian shakes his head, though, and he must be okay, because it doesn't make him want to hurl. Good news all around. "Nah, man, I'm fine." Especially after he chugs a few mouthfuls of the water. Even just that helps settle his stomach, and he doesn't feel quite so dizzy anymore. "I'm good." He will be in a minute or two, at least. No reason to call Dom. The guy'll probably blow a gasket or something, and Brian ain't gonna worry him over nothing.

But Vince is still frowning. "You don't look good. You look like shit."

Brian manages a chuckle and smiles around the lip of the water bottle. "I always look like this," he says.

"Yeah, you do." And either Brian's eyes are playing tricks on him, or that's actually just a little bit of a smile on Vince's face.

Well shit, if he'd known all it took to warm him up was a little bit of self-deprecating humor…eh, he probably still would've bugged the guy. But hey, it's good to know.

Then Vince turns to leave.

"Where you going?" Brian asks. Mostly because he's paranoid about Vince slipping off and calling Dom, even though he told him he didn't need to. Vince doesn't really listen to anybody but Dom, and Brian…Brian is _definitely_ not Dom.

Vince just keeps walking, though, and for a second, Brian thinks he's gonna ignore him, but then, "Some of us actually gotta get work done around here, Buster."

"Give me ten and I'll help."

"Fuck that," Vince says, turning around. "You take your ass off that couch before Dom gets back, I'll beat your ass myself." And judging by the way he's pointing that socket wrench he stole from Brian, it seems pretty clear how he'd plan to do it. Not that he actually would.

Brian's not real tempted to test that, though.

Instead, he screws the cap back on the bottle and swings his legs up on the couch, mostly because he wants to straighten his knee back out, and one thing leads to another, and next thing he knows, he's stretched out on the couch on his side, because that's pretty much the only way he can lay that doesn't hurt like a bitch, and it's kind of nice, because there's a big industrial fan over in the corner that hits the couch every few seconds. He figures he'll just rest here a second, maybe close his eyes, then go back out and see if he can't get that damn crankshaft out – because seriously, that thing's being a bitch – until Dom and Leon get back with chow.

Just a little breather.

Just a second.

Next thing he knows, there's something on his face. It's warm and solid, and not at all like the air that's been blowing on him since he—shit!

He starts awake – and fuck, he didn't mean to fall asleep – and he's about to sit up, but there's something holding him back to the couch.

"Easy, Bri." Brian recognizes the voice, and when his eyes finally start to clear up, he sees Dom staring back at him. It's his hand on Brian's face, he realizes, on his forehead like he's feeling for a fever.

Brian realizes a second later that's exactly what he's doing.

He frowns, and he starts to push himself up again, a little slower this time, but he meets the same resistance. "'s going on?" he mumbles. His mouth is dry and tacky, and his throat's even worse, and he grimaces.

"Vince called," Dom says. He doesn't say anything else, but he doesn't need to.

Brian groans and sinks back into the couch. "Shit."

"Shit's right. I thought I told you to take it easy."

"I'm fine." And he is. Seriously. It feels kind of like he ran a marathon, but he's fine.

Dom's frowning, though. "You got a fever."

"It's a hundred degrees in here."

"And you're a hundred-and-one," Dom deadpans. "What's that tell you?"

Brian chances a smirk. "That I'm hotter than average?"

"Try again."

Apparently, Dom is not amused.

Well, shit.

Brian sighs, and this time when he starts to push himself up, he doesn't _let_ Dom stop him. He brushes his hand off and tries to ignore the way his head starts spinning and the burning in his shoulders ratchets up a couple hundred degrees.

It turns out to be a mistake, though. The nausea from before comes back with a vengeance, and he feels this weird sort of almost _cold_ tingle go up his spine and down his legs and arms. He pushes through it, but it doesn't feel great, and when he tries to stand up, he's actually grateful that Dom doesn't let him.

"Slow it down, Brian."

"I said I was fine."

"And I said you weren't," Dom shoots back. "So can the hardheaded tough guy routine and drink your damn Gatorade."

Brian's torn between getting pissed off Dom's treating him like a kid and wondering where the hell this Gatorade is he's talking about, and before he can really decide between them, Dom's putting an ice cold bottle in his hand and pushing it towards his lips.

Brian wants to be mad about it, but what the hell, he's thirsty. He can be mad after he's had a drink. It's the blue kind, anyway. The good kind.

He's chugged half the bottle before he puts it down, and Dom's frowning again.

"What's that look for?" He knows that look. Dom's thinking, and he's not happy about what he's thinking about.

"You."

"Whoa, there, don't overload me with details," Brian says dryly. "Seriously, what's the deal? If you're worried about me, don't be. I'm fine. And if you're pissed at me, don't be that either." What? He's only human, and only an idiot doesn't fear the wrath of Dom.

"I ain't mad at you."

"Which means...you're the other thing?"

"I'm always the other thing."

Right.

"So, what about lunch?" Because that's a subject change Dom'll _never_ notice. That's not even from left field; it's straight from freaking Mars or some shit.

"Pizza's on the table."

Brian perks up a little bit, both because he's excited about pizza, and he's pretty much ecstatic that Dom went along with his detour. It's shaping up to be a pretty good day after all. "Cheese or pepperoni?" he asks.

Dom raises an eyebrow. "Does it even matter?"

"Not one damn bit." And Brian's grinning, because what can he say? The guy knows him. He'll eat anything, and pizza's pizza as far as he's concerned.

"Figured." Dom's smiling too, just a little bit, more in his eyes than anything, but it's a definite improvement. "You alright to walk?"

It's Brian's turn to raise an eyebrow. "So, all the times I keep saying I'm fine, what is it you hear exactly?"

"You don't want to know," Dom says. And even if Brian can tell he's just messing with him, he's probably right. His ego's taken enough of a bashing, thanks. He can't even last out one whole day in the garage, for fuck's sake. And that's just doing tinkering work. He can't even _think_ about doing any of the heavy work. Any of the _useful _work.

Fuck.

"Hey."

Brian's so lost in his head, he flinches when Dom's hand touches his face. He kind of hopes Dom'll just think it's because his hand's cold from passing over the Gatorade, but the look in his eyes says he's not buying what Brian's silently selling.

"I'm fine," Brian mutters, but even _he_ hears something different in it than what he means. _I'm sore. I'm tired. I'm angry with myself. _

_ I'm screwed_.

Dom just moves his hand up a little more, though, and gives Brian's hair a quick ruffle. "I know you are," he says, and then drops his hand from Brian's head to hold it out while he straightens up. "Now, you comin', or you gonna let Leon scarf the whole damn pie?"

And as Brian grabs Dom's hand and the guy hauls him onto his feet like he weighs nothing on the moon, he smiles a little despite himself. He's sore, he's tired, he's _still_ angry with himself, and considering he's still got work in a couple days and the Little Saigon Crew stirring up trouble, he's still _definitely_ screwed.

But hey, at least there's someone around now willing to give him a hand.


End file.
